Birds of Prey
by ChrisTR
Summary: When a mysterious new student arrives at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, events take a turn for the worse. Who is he? What does he want? - This will actually be getting interesting. So, read it already.
1. On Platform 9 34

Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe is a figment, not of my, but of JK Rowling's imagination. As are the people, places and other things described in this story. I shall not make any money out of this. I might just get a kick out of people reading (and reviewing, thank you very much). I do not in any way intend to ruin this very special place for all of us, but have nevertheless introduced a couple of new characters which I hope will be pleasing. In any way, they do actually belong to me, and providing Rowling doesn't sue, I shall see what to make of them. This Disclaimer goes for each and every chapter of this story, but I just can't be bothered to retype it every time. So. There.   
  
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Chapter 1 – On Platform 9 ¾   
  
Wizards were essentially large egos with pointed hats. They were proud people: proud not only of their arcane knowledge and powers, but also very proud of their billowing robes and flashy wands. It was therefore only logical, that wizards (or, rather, Wizards. Capitals were of large importance in the Wizarding World) did not mix well with other people. They did not want to mix well with other people. Wizards weren´t other people. Oh, they understood the concept of camouflage – or at least they had nodded vigourously when it had been explained to them – but then somehow always got it all wrong. This was expecially true for his parents, Oliver thought, as their car drew up outside King´s Cross Station, London.  
  
As his driver opened to the door for him to get out, he straightened himself and glanced over to the second car, where his parents already stood, giving directions to their own driver. Oliver took in the faces of the people around him. Most of them didn´t even notice the small group of strangely attired people that stood next to the entrance hall. Some of them, though, stood there aghast, and gazed openly at them. He couldn´t say he blamed them. Oliver let out a sigh, and ran a hand through his slightly too long hair.  
  
It´s not that they don´t try to blend in, he told himself. It´s just that whenever they try, they more or less blend out, instead.   
  
Claudius Rapace, his father, stood there, dressed in his usual wizarding robes. Unfortunately, he had opted to wear a Muggle shirt and jacket too, their house crest emblazened on all three of them. On the minimal research he had done, he probably thought he looked nicely inconspicuous. Likewise, his mother, Messalina, wore her robes and pointy witches´ hat, but had conceeded to Muggle customs, insofar as she had stuck a flower in it, and carried three handbags.  
  
Obviously enough, this attracted rather more attention than Oliver felt was necessary. They looked like someone who had overslept severely, or just gotten back from a stag night, respectively. He didn´t bother to comment, though. He had long since stopped trying to talk sense into his parents, as far as Muggles went. Instead, he just trudged over to the trunk of the car and watched impassively as the driver pulled at his baggage until it finally tore free. Muttering under his breatch, the old man heaved it onto a trolley and turned back to get the rest of Oliver´s possessions.   
  
"Silly Muggles!" he muttered under his breath. "´d be so much easier for a bit o´magic. Damn and blast them, little…" He stopped himself abruptly when he noticed Oliver watching him, and drew himself up to full height. "I´m sorry, young master," he said hurriedly, bowing his head. "I was just commenting on…"  
  
Oliver dismissively waved a hand to shut him up and the driver went back to the remaining piece of luggage. He glanced over at his parents and saw his mother waving imperiously at an elderly lady who had just dropped her groceries and gaped at her open-mouthed.   
  
Bored, Oliver went to sit in the open car, and rummaged around in his Muggle clothes, fishing for his cigarettes. Smoking was, of course, known in the Wizarding World, though usually more in the form of long, artfully carved Rosewood-pipies. Cigarettes were commonly frowned upon, especially at Hogwarts, where, apparently, it set a bad example for the younger students to be smoking them. But, as in all schools, this did not necessarily keep the older ones from doing it. No one ever went to Moaning Myrtle´s bathroom anyway to notice the smell.  
  
Besides, Oliver reasoned to himself, if I am to blend in in a Muggle crowd, it´s something of an imperative. They all seem do to it. Shame, though, that they can´t just ´magic away´ the more nefastuous side-effects. As it were.  
  
When he had lighted it, he heard the flutter of wings, and turned to see a large, jet-black owl perched on the car door. It gave him a greeting hoot, then looked, with a surprising amount of disdain (for an owl), at the burning cigarette in his hands.  
  
"Don´t judge me," Oliver said. "I´ve wondered where you´d gotten to. Wouldn´t want to miss Hogwarts, now would you? Not that I doubt for a second your ability to find your way there on your own," he added hastily as he caught her eye. "Still, I´d rather have you on the train with me."  
  
At that, the owl swooped off the door, caught Oliver´s cigarette in its beak and threw it away, angrily stamping on it with its talons. When it had been reduced to sufficiently small shreds, the bird settled down on his knee, apparently satisfied. Owls didn´t like cigarettes. Or pipes, for that matter. Oliver stroked its feathers soothingly and smiled. He fished out his cigarette packet again and dangled it in front of the owl´s eyes.   
  
"I know you don´t like it, Covus, my dear," he said sweetly, "but tere are some battles you just can´t win."   
  
Corvus gave a hoot of disgust and made a snap at his fingers, though not in an entirely hostile way. Oliver ruffled the feathers on its head and barely looked up as he heard his father´s booming voice across the parking lot.   
  
"Oliver! Stop playing with that ruddy bird, and get over here! The train leaves in nine minutes!"   
  
Oliver looked at the owl. "What did you do to annoy him, this time? Lef droppings all over his desk again, I imagine." Corvus flapped his wings agitatedly. "We really should be going," he said with a glance at his watch. "Come along."  
  
As the owl left his knee and circled the parking lot a last time, Oliver stood up and followed his parents and the driver into the station. The hall of King´s Cross was filled with people trying to catch their trains, and the noises they made. As he looked around him, hesaw a couple of other groupls making their way to Platform 9, most of them pushing enormous trolleys in front of them, loaded with trunks and birdcages, just like his own. Other Wizards, on their way to Hogwarts. There were a lot of First Years there – nervous-looking 11 year olds, who would be on teir first trip to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, looking uncertainly at each other. Oliver couldn´t help thinking that they would probably be a lot less nervous, if their parents would stop making such a fuss about it.  
  
Oliver´s parents had also made a fuss off him going to Hogwarts, though for completely other reasons. They didn´t like Hogwarts very much. They like Albus Dumbledore, its Headmaster, even less. They had had some unpleasant busines with him in the past, and if there was one thing his parents were good at, it was holding on to old grudges. Oliver was surprised they had let him sign on to Hogwarts at all. They had had a bit of a discussion about it, but in the end he had made it clear that he wanted to go, and his parents had no choice but to accept this. Still, he was surprised they had not put up more of a fight over it. They could´t be comfortable with the thought of him going to a mixed-school, that was attended not only by real Wizards, but also Muggle-Borns. They did not approve of this – trust Dumbledore, they said, to let that kind of people in – and they clearly would not approve of him associating himself with them. His parents usually took a lively interest in what crowd their only son frequented. They would almost certainly frown on most of his soon to be found new friends.   
  
They had frowned on most of his old friends, too, come to think of it, and had insisted that he spent more time with people of their choosing. Mostly these people were off old and respected (though in some instances also notorious and feared) Wizarding families, and quite a lot of them seemed to be girls his parents wanted to set him up wit. Of course, he was nearly 18 now, and in their time, people were long married by then.   
  
Strangely enough, though, neither of his parents seemed to actually talk to one of these would-be fiancees before introducing them to him. Oliver found most of them icredibly dull, and occasionally also incredibly daft. That was of course to be expected – they were all purebloods, after all, from very distinguished families, that had, over the years, watched over their bloodlines and lineage like so many dog-breeders. He didn´t quite get it: how could anyone seriously talk about pureblooded Wizards anymore? If there had been no intermarriage between Wizards and Muggles, they would have had died out, long ago.  
  
Certainly, there were some exceptions. The Malfoys for instance, or his own family for that matter, had only ever married people from an ever diminishing pool of other families. The result was obvious: Oliver constantly found himself facing some new cousin he was supposed to marry and spawn inbred little dolts with.   
  
Of course, he could never voice these thoughts to his parents. His mother only communicated through levels of disappointment anyway, ever since that one time they actually had had a row about this. Back then, Oliver had said something about the family gene pool needing a bit of chlorine, and provoked a half-hour bout of costant screaming. He smiled at the memory of it. Then he noticed his parents had gone. Not that this would have deeply troubled him in itself, but they did have his trunk with them, after all. He helf himself up to his full height to find them in the mass of people, and gave an inward sigh of relief when he discovered his mother´s ridiculous flower-garnered hat in the crowd and hurried after them. Corvus came to a fluttering rest on his shoulder, just as he had caught up and fallen in step behind them.  
  
As they got to Platform 9 ¾ , his parents stopped; Claudius Rapace motioned for one of the Hogwarts Express staff to come forward and take care of his son´s luggage. A middle-aged Wizard came hurrying over and levitated the trunk off the trolley and into the train wagon. Then he turned back and pointed at Oliver´s owl.  
  
"You´ll have to put her in her cage, young man. Owls aren´t allowed in the compartments," he said in a stern voice.   
  
They´re the same everywhere, Oliver thought. So very zealous when it comes to rules. And so very daft to it when it comes to common sense.   
  
He didn´t usually hold to abusing his family influence. He rather prefered to manage things on his own, thank you very much. This however – this was one of the few opportunities where he valued his parents, and their disdain for anyone below Order or Merlin, First Class. He very much doubted if his parents actually cared about his owl. Probably they just get a kick out of ordering people around. But he wasn´t going to argue. Already, he could see his father straightening up and filling his lungs with enough air for what he knew was going to be one of those sermons people wished never to have experienced.  
  
"Who are you, man?" Claudius Rapace asked.  
  
"My name is Simmons, sir," the Hogwarts employee said nervously.  
  
"Very well, Simmos. If my son wishes to take his ruddy bird on the train with him, then my son will very well do so."  
  
"I´m afraid, sir, I can´t allow that. It´s against regulations."  
  
Oliver´s father went red in the face. "Against regulations?" he bellowed. "What are your petty rules to me, man? Do you know who I am?"  
  
The man shook his head.   
  
"I am Claudius Rapace, Member of the Order of Mithrandir, Order of Merlin, First Class, Head of House Rapace, First Warlock of…"  
  
Oliver turned away. He had witnessed this often enough. Father would shout at the unfortunate Wizard for as long as time permitted, the poor man would allow Oliver to take his owl with him and then mount the train himself, looking somewhat dejected. Father had a knack for making people uncomfortable with their lives.   
  
"My great-grandfather personally helped in the defeat of…"  
  
Something else caught Oliver´s eye. Further down the platform, he saw two boys and a slightly smaller girl saying goodbye to a rather short, plump-looking woman. The girl and one of the boys had flaming red hair and freckles. The other had black, dishevelled hair and wore glasses. He could not make it out from the distance, but he knew that the boy also had a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.   
  
"I myself have contributed to the glory of my house while you petty, little, unimportant…"  
  
Well, this was as good an excuse as any.  
  
"…were still hanging on your mother´s…"  
  
He interrupted his father midway through his recapitulation of the various feats House Rapace had ever accomplished (and a rather crude remark, thankfully) and said his goodbyes. Then he turned to his mother and give her a slight peck on the cheek. When he was certain enough that none of his parents would notice, he sympathetically patted Simmons´ back. As he turned to walk away, he heard his father pick up his line of thought again.   
  
"And now you, you, you…self-important son of a squib…"  
  
Oliver smiled ruefully. As he boarded the train, he looked back at his family one last time. Simmons looked like he was on the verge of tears. Poor sod, he thought to himself. He turned his head to Corvus, who was still perched on his shoulder. "And all because of you," he whispered. The owl lookd at him quizzically. "Don´t worry. You really shouldn´t be locked up in a cage. Not when you could do something much more useful," he added, as he looked down the corridor. He had stpotted three students in Slytherin robes, closing in on a very frightened First Year. One of the Slytherins – what looked like the leader – had a long, blonde hair, carefully combed back over his head. The other two were the sort of people you found at every school: big, wide, imposing. The way they stooped over the other one´s shoulders, it was clear who was the muscle, and who was, for lack of a better word, the brain.   
  
Oliver gave his shoulder a jerk. "Slytherins. Off ou go."  
  
Corvus had tensed at the mention of the name, flexed his wings angrily and was off like a shot, manging in the process to sink his talons in Oliver´s shoulder. He winced automatically and slid one hand under his shirt to inspect the damage. Sure enough, when he brought it back up to look at it, there was blood on his fingers. He grunted somewhat disgustedly and turned around to find an empty compartment, as far away from the Slytherins as possible. As he turned, he bumped into a tall girl with bushy hair. A lot of bushy hair. They started apologising almost simultaneously.   
  
"Ouch! Sorry, I…"  
  
"Whoa, sorry! I didn´t see you…"  
  
Both their voices trailed off. The girl frowned at him.  
  
"Sorry," Oliver said sheepishly. "I didn´t see you standing there."  
  
"Don´t worry, I…" She glanced at his bloodied fingers and frowned again. The way her forehead settled readily into a pattern of wrinkles made Oliver suppose that she did this quite a lot. "I´m sure I´m not that skinny…"  
  
"What? Oh, no. No, no, that was just my owl. He gets a bit jumpy sometimes," he explained, as he wiped his hands clean on his trousers. "Got me on the shoulder just now."  
  
"I know what you mean. Crookshanks – that´s my cat – he always gets angry when I put him in the baggage wagon. That´s why I have these here." She held up a pair of leather gloves for inspection. Suddenly the train gave a shudder as it started to move. Both of them gave a small jerk as they tried to keep their balance, waiting for the train to steady itself and pick up speed. Through one of the windows, Oliver could see his parents making their way back to the Muggle world, his father still gesticulating wildly. It´s so hard for him to stop, once he´s gotten all worked up.   
  
"Actually, he´s not with the baggage. He´s just over there-" Oliver said, pointing over his shoulder. He grinned widely when he heard a yelp of pain from one of the Slytherins behind him. "Making himself useful."  
  
The girl looked over his shoulders and frowned. Again.  
  
"That´s against regulations, though, isn´t it? Owls are not allowed in the passenger compartment, you know. I should…"  
  
As she moved slightly to get another good look at Corvus, her robes parted to reveal a golden "P" embroidered in the silky material, just below the golden Lion of the Gryffindor House crest.   
  
A Prefect. Great.   
  
Oliver stepped in front of her when she started to move. "Listen," he said quickly. "You can just leave him there. He´s not huring anyone." There was another yelp at that point, as, obviously, the owl did hurt someone. Oliver cast a quick look over his shoulder at the Slytherins. They were waving their arms frantically, trying to fight off the apparently homicidal bird. "Much."   
  
The girl straightened up. "I´m a Prefect, thank you very much. I really should…"  
  
There was a loud grunt, when one of the Slytherins accidentally kicked the other two in the stomach, in an effort to get back at Corvus. Oliver had to supress a wide grin.   
  
Suddenly, a head covered in flaiming red hair shot out off one of the compartmens behind them. The boy Oliver had seen on the Platform earlier looked at them questioningly.  
  
"Hermione? What´s going on? What´s that bird doing to Malfoy?" he added in a happy tone.  
  
Oliver raised his arms soothingly. "Nothing. He´s just having a bit of fun."  
  
"I´ll say." Ron looked at Oliver slyly. "Well, seeing as Draco is all right…Coming, Hermione?"  
  
The girl called Hermione turned around. "Ron, we´re Prefects," she said excitedly. "It´s our job to put that owl away. Even if it´s just picking on…" She hesitated and looked at the Slytherins. "…Malfoy."  
  
"Oh, come on, Hermione. Don´t be such a goody-goody. Draco can handle himself."   
  
"Listen," Oliver said. "I don´t want any trouble with you, but there´s no way Corvus will spend the journey in a cage. I´ll make you a deal. I´ll get him off those guys and see to it that he behaves well. Assuming that a self-imposed invite is all right with you, we´ll join you in your compartment and you can keep an eye on him. That way, I´ll get a decent seat and you get to do your duty. Everyone wins, see?" He had a hard time keeping a straight face: his sentence was punctuated by the groaning and yelping of the Slytherins as they pulled on each other´s hair, flaying helplessly, to fend of their assailant.   
  
"Deal," Ron said. "Hermione?"  
  
"Well," she answered sceptically. "I suppose so…no more tricks, allright?" she added for Oliver´s benefit.  
  
He grinned openly. "The thought hadn´t even crossed my mind."  
  
Again, the girl frowned. She seemed to do this very often. "No? In that case, if I were you, I´d sue my face for slander. Go on then, call him. See if he does what you say."  
  
Oliver turned his head sideways and gave a low whistle. With a last, sharp jap at Malfoy´s head, Corvus flapped his wings a few times and came soaring back to Oliver. He settled down on his shoulder with a last, balancing flap. When Oliver stroked his feathers appreciatively, it made a contend sound, somewhere between a hoot and a purr.   
  
"Impressive bird, mate," Ron said, looking at Corvus admiringly, then he held out his hand. "I´m Ron. Ron Weasly." They shook hands and Ron motioned for him to come inside. "Make yourself at home."  
  
"Thanks." He politely held out his hand, and waited for Hermione to shake it. "I´m Oliver Rapace.""  
  
She looked at him sternly and shook his hand slowly. "Hermione Granger."  
  
"Pleasure to meet you. Now, Miss Granger, would you be so kind as to watch over my owl for a couple of minutes, while I go and change? I don´t feel too comfortable in those," he added, pointing at his Muggle clothes. When he heard her muttered "Sure, whatever", he turned his head back to Corvus and whispered something in his ear. The owl hooted a couple of times, nibbled his ear in what it probably mistook for an affectionate way, then took off and landed on Hermione´s shoulder. As soon as it had settled down it had started to pick on Hermione´s hair.   
  
"Hey, stop that! I said stop...that tickles!"   
  
Corvus darted his head to and fro on her head, though careful not to hurt her.  
  
"Thanks," Oliver smiled and turned around, making his way to the baggage compartment. As he passed the First Year Malfoy had been bullying, he ruffled his hair and told him to go sit somewhere. He was very careful not to smile as he passed the Slytherins.   
  
Ron and Hermione watched him curiously (or, in Hermione´s case, still sceptically) as he slid open a door and disappeared through it.   
  
"Interesting fellow," Ron said. "Never seen him before. D´you know what House he´s in?" Hermione shook her head. "And what was he doing with that bird? Looked like he was talking to it."  
  
"Yeah…" Hermione hesitated. She had just been thinking the same. What had he been doing with that bird? She absent-mindedly tried to get Corvus off her head to stop him from nesting there. "Shoo. Shoo! Get off!" The owl made no sign of moving.   
  
"But that´s not possible, is it?" Ron continued. "I mean it can´t be done, can it?" He eyed Hermione. "Can it?"  
  
Just then, another boy had appeared behind them. "Can what be done?" he asked.  
  
Ron looked at him. "Long story, mate. We just met someone interesting. Come on, I´ll tell you about it inside. Harry – have you ever heard the phrase The enemy of my enemy is my friend?"  
  
Harry looked at him curiously as he entered the compartment.  
  
"Ever heard of the phrase The enemy of my enemy is just some other guy?" Hermione muttered under her breath as she followed them inside. 


	2. The Hogwarts Express

Chapter 2 – The Hogwarts Express  
  
When Oliver got back to the compartment a short while later, now properly dressed in his new school robes, he noticed that Ron was now sitting next to the black-haired boy he´d seen on Platform 9 ¾. There was no doubt who he was – the scar, the glasses – it was all too obvious. Oliver said down next to Hermione, who was still trying to shoo Corvus away from her hair, and looked over at Harry.  
  
"You´d be Harry Potter, then," he said matter-of-factly.  
  
Harry was surprised. Not that a perfect stranger knew his name, and probably more about him than himself. He´d long since gotten used to that. But usually people either spoke his name in a sort of awed whisper, or with a considerable amount of venom in their voice. A simple statement of fact was a new experience for him – at least as far as students went.   
  
"Yes? Hello?" he said carefully. The boy´s eyes were measuring him up and down, in a way that he was not at all certain he liked. It reminded him of the way Professor Snape used to look at him. As their eyes finally met, the boy shook his head ever so slightly, as if to shake himself out of a dream. Then he smiled.  
  
"I´m sorry, I´m so rude. I´m Oliver Rapace," he said, and held out his handamiably. When Harry had hesitatingly gripped and shaken it, Oliver´s look turned to Hermione, who was absent-mindedly stroking Corvus´ back, as the large owl kept picking at things invisible under her hair. Occasionally, she still tried to shoo him off, but had apparently resigned herself to the fact that the owl clearly had no intention of leaving. "You seem to have made friends."  
  
Hermione made a face. "I guess. Apart from the fact that he seems to want to nest on my head."  
  
"Yes. Well, he does that. It can be a nuisance in class. Corvus." He locked eyes with the owl and shook his head slightly. "Behave." The owl made an unidentifiable noise and, in silent acquiesence, settled down on Hermione´s knee. It hooted, then stared at her with its yellow eyes until she started stroking his feathers again.   
  
Oliver suddenly felt three pairs of eyes resting on him, and knew for a fact that his ears were getting pink. He looked at them innocently. "What?"   
  
"That´s one hell of a bird you have there," Harry said slowly. "I don´t think I´ve ever seen one so well-trained."  
  
"Well, he doesn´t trust people easily. But when he does, it´s unconditionally."  
  
"So," Ron asked hesitatingly, "why did you set him lose on Malfoy?"  
  
Oliver arched an elegant eyebrow. He hadn´t thought anyone had seen him actually do that. Bugger. It´d would have been better to keep a low profile on his first day, not start bullying people around. Oliver gave a rueful smile.   
  
"Well, he and his fat friends were just about to go to business on some First Year. I don´t like bullies. And I particularly don´t like the type that needs two large mates to pick on 11 year olds. His name is Draco Malfoy, you say?" Ron nodded. "Son of Lucius Malfoy?" He nodded to himself. "Figures. Well then," he sighed. "That´s one more reason to do what I did. That little git is my cousin. Thankfully not a very close one, though," he added hurriedly, after seeing their shocked expressions. "Hang on, I´ll explain. As I said, my last name is Rapace." He looked at them expectantly. Each of them stared at him with a vacant expression on their faces. Clearly, this did not have the desired effect. "You know," he added, somewhat lamely. They obviously did not. He cleared his throat. "All right. I suppose you wouldn´t know. Some time ago, my family was counted among the most powerful wizarding families in England. We used to live in London – we still keep a house there – but mostly, we´ve been staying abroad for the last 20 years or so. My family is what our little friend Malfoy would call "pureblooded".  
  
He felt, more than heard the sharp intake of breath. "Since my ancestors only ever married into other pureblood - " Again, he almost felt them whincing. " – families, things have become rather confusing. You see, if you want to keep your blood pure, as it were, there´s only a very limited choice in spouses. After a while you´re faced with the very strange fact that almost everyone eligible for marriage is somehow related to you. You," he said as an afterthought, pointing at Ron. "You´re probably my cousin as well, though I really couldn´t say. So, there you are."  
  
He looked around. A very uncomfortable silence had settled over the compartment. "Ehm...sorry. I suppose Malfoy is sermonizing about this all the time."   
  
Hermione nodded slowly. "He is, yeah. Though usually in very different words."  
  
"Thought as much. The Malfoys are a prime example of what I´ve been talking about. A bunch of haughty, arrogant, in-bred bastards. Powerful, though. Apparently, incest agrees with magical powers – even if it definetely does not with common sense."   
  
Harry snorted. He had heard all this before. His own godfather, Sirius Black, had explained this to him last year, and Harry still remembered it vividly – of course. They had been in Sirius´ house on Grimmauld Place and he had been shocked to see, on an ancient tapestry depicting the Black family tree, Lucius Malfoy listed as a distand relative of Sirius. That had only been a couple of months ago. Before Sirius had been killed.  
  
Murdered, a small voice hissed in his head.  
  
Shut up, Harry thought, angrily. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The guilt had been nagging at him, ever since his godfather had died in the Ministry of Magic. He really didn´t need this now. A new year at Hogwarts was about to start, and as so often before, he wished he could just have a normal year at school, without trolls, assassination plots, Voldemort trying to kill him or other people getting hurt or killed because of him. Why couldn´t he just lead a normal life, like everyone else? Worrying about homework, about the upcoming N.E.W.T. exams, the Quidditch season, or about girls? Not being a pawn in some all-out mage-war. Not being talked and whispered about at school. Not having his feelings spread out on the front page of the Daily Prohet. And not being dumped by Cho Chang because he still couldn´t cope with the death of her last boyfriend, Cedric, who had died, again, because of him. Not being...  
  
Snap out of it! he reminded himself. He forced himelf to focus on the conversation around him.   
  
Ron had just said something about Oliver´s owl. Harry only grapsed the last part of the sentence.  
  
"...never seen one like that before. Shadow owls are very rare. He must have cost an absolute fortune!"  
  
"Don´t be silly, Ron," Hermione said in her usual, slightly codescending tone, ignoring the angry look on Ron´s face. "You can´t buy Shadow Owls, everyone knows that. They´re on the verge of becoming extinct. The Ministry only put them on the endangered species list 2 years ago. Where did you get it?" she asked suspiciously, turning to Oliver.  
  
"I found him. Or rather, he found me. It´s a long story."  
  
"Oh, we´re not going anywhere, mate," Ron said anxiously.   
  
Oliver looked at him. Ron was sitting on the edge of his seat, clearly eager to learn how to lay his own hands on such a bird. Harry looked mildly interested, and Hermione was watching him curiously.  
  
"Oh, all right then," he said. "Now, you may already have wondered why you´ve never seen me before, seeing as I am in the same year you are." He saw them nod. "Well, this is my first year at Hogwarts. I transfered here from Durmstrang for my last two years."  
  
Hermione´s head rose sharpy at the mention of Durmstrang School of Wizardry. Harry, who knew what was coming, exchanged a wry smile with Ron.  
  
"You were at Durmstrang?" they heard her ask excitedly.  
  
"Er...yeah?"   
  
"Do you know Viktor Krum?"  
  
Ron screwed up his eyes.   
  
"Of course," Oliver said. "Who doesn´t? Actually, the little muppet was sort of responsible for me finding Corvus. Why?"  
  
"Oh...nothing. Just curious," Hermioned said sheepishly.  
  
Harry and Ron started giggling and Oliver narrowed his eyes curiously. Then it dawned on him.  
  
"Oh, that´s right! Of course. He was over here for the Triwizard Tournament, two years ago, right? Yeah, that´s it. Did you meet him?"  
  
Hermione suddenly developped an intense interest in her shoes. Something about the way that she avoided looking at anyone made Oliver think twice.  
  
"Hang on. He mentioned something about..." His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That was you?"  
  
Hermione busied herself with picking at some particular stubborn (and totally imaginary) dirt on her soles.   
  
"You don´t have to seem so surprised about it," she said under her breath. Harry and Ron chuckled at their friend´s obvious discomfort, until she angrily hissed "Shut up!" at them and looked at the floor furiously.   
  
"Er..." Oliver hesitated. "Is anyone still interested?"  
  
"Yes!" all three of them yelled, though probably not for the same reasons. "Go on already."  
  
"Right." He cleared his throat importantly. "So, as I was saying, I was at Durmstrang for five years and played on one of the Quidditch teams. Seeker," he added proudly.   
  
"You played Quidditch with Viktor Krum?" The obvious awe in Ron´s voice was deeply gratifying, Oliver found.   
  
"Well," he said mock-modestly. "I didn´t really play with him. More like against him. Only beat him once, obviously. I don´t think there are many Seekers of his calibre nowadays." He shot a glance at Harry.   
  
Ron was gaping at him with newly added awe. First the bird, then this...  
  
"You actually beat Viktor Krum to the Snitch?"  
  
"well, yeah. Only once, mind you. And it was raining, and Viktor had just taken a Bludger to the head. He was he still was on his broom. Didn´t even see it happening, myself, otherwise I´d never have gone after the Snitch. Only saw him hovering on his broom, surrounded by MediWizards when I got out of my dive, and by that time I already had the Snitch in my hand. He was really sporting about it, though. Wouldn´t hear nothing about a rematch. Said I won it, fair and square."  
  
He paused for a second. He had won it, fair and square. But still, it didn´t feel like a victory.  
  
"Anyway, where was I?"  
  
"Showing off," Hermione muttered.  
  
"I wasn´t...yeah, right, ok, so I was. But it´s Viktor bleeding Krum, after all," he added with a smile and could see Ron nodding enthusiastically out of the corner of his eye.  
  
"Nevermind. So, one day we were on the pitch, right? Bad day, that was. Windy, and just pouring down in buckets. Really ideal conditions for Quidditch. I could see bugger all. Don´t remember the score, but knowing Viktor´s team, it must have been somewhere along 50-nil in their favour. So there I was, circling the pitch, Viktor doing the same obviously, looking for that little golden pain. After some time, I saw him diving steeply at breack-neck speed, so I took off after him. It was a feint, obviously, but I didn´t notice that until after Viktor had cleared off and I still couldn´t see a sign of the bloody Snitch anywhere. I just about managed to get out of the dive in time, though my broom almost bought it, there and then. Quidditch can be a real bastard of a game at times. So I got back to a reasonable height, angry as hell, when I saw Viktor hovering above me. Grinning. The muppet was actually grinning. Then he gave a start, jerked his broom sideways and next thing I know, there´s a particularly nasty Bludger coming right my way. He must have caught it with his broom and nudged it my way." He heard Ron whistle appreciatively, as he paused for breath (and effect).   
  
"Yeah, I know. Nice one, that. A bit below the belt, but it must´ve been difficult to pull off. So, basically, the Bludger missed me by inches, and smashed into my broom, instead. Ripped the tail end right off and left me stuck with a bucking stick of wood. Referee called a time-out of course, and there was TechWizards whizzing in my direction. The players sort of got into position below me. I suppose they were hoping to catch me, if I fell off. Even Viktor – I don´t think he meant to knock me off my broom, really. Just sort of give me a fright, you know. I´m telling you, that was one of the worst moments of my life. I must have been more than 300 feet up, gusts of wind everywhere. I doubt even old Karkaroff could have levitated me in that shitstorm. He must´ve have done some kind of spell, though, cause the broom didn´t shake me off. I couldn´t really controll it, though, just give it small nudges in some vague direction. The wind kept pushing me off course, though. Was really quite a picture, just imagine it: me holding on to dear life, being slowly pushed off the pitch and into the landscape, and about 20 other people some distance below me, gripping their brooms, following me, trying to safeguard me, all at the same time. I was well over the forest next to the pitch when I finally lost it. I guess the spectator stands broke Karkaroff´s line of sight, and when his spell stopped, the broom just went apeshit and threw me off. Fell through at least 30 feet of trees, snapping off branches as I went, until I smashed into the ground. Fortunately it had been raining for two days straight, so I didn´t fall that hard. Broke a leg and my shoulder, though. Last thing I saw was a big, black owl swooping in and perching on a branch close to where I was lying. Then I passed out."  
  
Oliver paused to look at each one of them in turn. They were hanging on his lips, he could tell. He felt quite good about that.  
  
"So, when I came round a week later in the hospital, he," He pointed to Corvus. "was sitting on the end of the bed. Hasn´t left me since. They told me later that, afer I had passed out, he flew down to the pitch and got Karkaroff and the MediWizards to follow him. Led them right to me, they said, and wouldn´t clear off. Apparently he had been sitting at my bed for the whole week, and left just once, to go hunting. Even brought me a dead rat, to get my strength up. Dame Fanny wasn´t particularly pleased about that."  
  
At last, Oliver stopped. He could see Ron gulping, clearly impressed. At some point during the story, Corvus had finally left Hermione´s knee and settled down protectively between Oliver´s legs. Again, it made that strange half-purring noise, as he was stroking it absently.   
  
"So. There you go. Named him Corvus on account of his colour. Been a loyal friend those last years." He patted Corvus on the head.   
  
Ron was the first to recover (although not entirely). "Wicked," he said. Oliver just smiled. He felt he had made quite an impression. And rightly so, he thought. That came out of nowhere.   
  
"What´s so special about Shadow Owls, anyway?" Harry asked. As usual, he found that there were still a lot of things he didn´t know about the wizarding world. Besides, he felt he had to stand up for Hedwig, here. Word of this was bound to get out. He shuddered to think what mood Hedwig would be in, once she found out about this owl. He´d always suspected that Wizards´owls were very intelligent beings. He wouldn´t be surprised to learn that they actually chatted to each other, up in the Hogwarts owlery. And Hedwig was quite competitive.   
  
Ron just looked at him. "Honestly, Harry," he said, mimicking Hermione. "Don't you ever read?" He chuckled at his own joke, but stopped abruptly when he saw Hermione´s look.   
  
"Harry," she began seriously. "Shadow Owls are very special. They´re fiendishly intelligent, and very loyal. A Shadow Owl would go to any lengths to help you, even at the expense of her own life. They´re a bit like Phoenixes in that matter. But they´re very difficult to tame. They don´t trust people easily. Some wizards even think they might be empathic."  
  
Harry and Ron looked at her blankly. Oliver jumped to Hermione´s aid when he heard her sigh.   
  
"They´re very sensitive to people´s feelings," he cut in, with a sidewards glance at Hermione. "It´s a bit like mind-reading, really, only they read your emotions. Some people even think they can actually read your character. They can tell decent people from...well, Malfoy, for one. And they´re very proud. Never insult a Shadow Owl if you want to keep on to your hair."  
  
Understanding dawned on Ron´s face. Or at least, that which passed for understanding in Ron´s case. "So, they´re a bit like a Hyppogriff on talons and a with a horn on their forehead."  
  
Oliver raised his eyebrows. "Er...well, that´s one way of putting it." Not the best one, though, he thought to himself.  
  
Hermione only shook her head and turned back to Harry.  
  
"But the thing is, they´re really rare. All of our Gringotts-Gold together couldn´t buy one, even if it was allowed to sell them." She looked at Harry. "Well, you probably could with your vault."  
  
"I don't´want to buy a new owl. I´ve got Hedwig, remember?" he said haughtily.   
  
"Yeah, but still," Ron breathed. "Do you actually talk to him, or what?"  
  
Oliver suddenly had a very odd burning in the pit of his stomach. That wasn´t supposed to be common knowledge. He smiled slily.  
  
"Don´t be daft, mate. You can´t talk to owls, everyone knows that. Not really, anyway. Sure you can give her directions, like when she´s delivering mail, but you don´t actually speak to her then, do you?"  
  
"It´s not that far-fetched, really," Ron said earnestly. "Harry here can talk to snakes. He´s a parselmouth, aren´t you Harry?" He turned and looked at his friend expectantly.   
  
Harry was glaring at him. Why was he telling him this? Did he really think it was a good idea to explain this to a perfect stranger? Even his own friends weren´t exactly comfortable with it. He didn´t say anything, just grunted a vague acknowledgement.   
  
Oliver´s eyes narrowed. He´d heard of famous Harry Potter, of course. His parents weren´t too keen to discuss the matter at home, but he´d gotten the truth out of their manservant long ago, how the Dark Lord had murdered his parents, and then almost been killed himself when he tried to dispose of Harry. So the Boy-Who-Lived was a parselmouth? He hadn´t known of that before and found it somewhat disturbing.  
  
"A parselmouth, eh?" he said, measuring Harry up and down again. "That´s a very rare gift." Harry tried to keep an impassive face, and said nothing. "Well, I´m not a parselmouth, Ron. And I can´t chat to Corvus about his day. I can only tell him where to go, when I´ve got an errand for him."  
  
He could tell from the expression on their faces and the way they looked at each other, that they did not necessarily take this at face value. Nevertheless, they didn't insist on it, for which Oliver was thankful. He didn´t really feel like discussing Corvus any further than he had done so far.   
  
He laid back in his seat, and tried to relax a little, when the conversation took a turn to more mundane subjects. Harry, Ron and Hermione were talking about their upcoming exams, speculated as to who might be the newly appointed teacher for Defence against the Dark Arts, and how much they loathed having to face their Potions Master, Professor Snape again. Oliver thought about this. He knew Severus Snape from before – pand while he had never found him pleasant company, Oliver had never expected him to provoke such unbridled hatred from his students. Then again, most of his parents´ friends weren´t exactly the affable sort. As he tried to remember when he had last seen Snape, the conversation suddenly turned to Quidditch again, and Ron had asked him if he was going to try out for one of the House teams.   
  
"Well, I might. I don´t know yet. I don´t even know which House I´ll belong to. Once I got that figured out, I reckon I´ll try and get it on the team. Are there any Seeker spots available?"  
  
"Nah, they´re all taken. Harry here´s the Gryffindor Seeker. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have got one. And Malfoy´s the Slytherin Seeker. If you want to join, you´ll have to train for Chaser or Beater. Dunno if there´s any Keeper spot open at the moment. Harry?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "Nah. None of the Keepers graduated last year, so they should all still be there. And you´re the Gryffindor Keeper."  
  
"Right. So, so there you go," Ron told Oliver. "You´ll have to be a Chaser, then."  
  
"Ah, we´ll see. I don´t even have a broom, right now. Shot my last one to pieces during the summer holidays." He rubbed his neck ruefully. "At least that´s teached me not to go near Whomping Willows."  
  
They all laughed at this. For the next two hours or so, Oliver didn´t talk much, but listened closely to what the others were saying. It was mostly just run-of-the-mill stuff. The few times that it seemed like one of them might go into more serious things, for instance the dealings Hogwarts had had with the Ministry of Magic last years, he would be shushed by the other two, and all of them would cast a discreet glance at Oliver. He pretended not to notice.   
  
After a while, Hermione tired of her usual, endless squabbling with Ron, and left him to discuss Keeping with Harry. She reached into her bag, took out her copy of Hogwarts: A History and was soon totally oblivious to anything around her.  
  
After watching her for some minutes, Oliver inched closer to her and gave a polite cough. "I don´t mean to interrupt," he said quietly, "but the answer is no."  
  
Hermione frowned. "No what? What answer?"  
  
"About Viktor. He mentioned you once when he got back, and that was it."  
  
Hermione blushed furiously. "I wasn´t going to ask about that," she said angrily.  
  
"No?" Oliver´s eyebrows were arched and he was looking at her smugly.  
  
"No. Not that it´s any of your business, thank you very much."  
  
Oliver was surprised. Apparently this was some point of sore spot. Trust Viktor to...  
  
"Fair enough."   
  
She looked angrily at her book for a few minutes then let out a deeply unnerved breath. "All right, for your information, I was going to ask that. But it´s still none of your bloody business."  
  
Oliver nodded seriously and didn´t push the issue further. For the rest of the journey, there was a solemn mood in the air – at least over their half of the compartment. Harry and Ron were still busily discussing anything from Cho to Quidditch and back again, while Hermione was focused on her book and Oliver just sat there, thinking. After a while, Corvus left them and soared out the door, into the corridor. Seconds latter, Oliver could hear the clatter of a trolley being knocked over and a very shrill and very angry female voice.   
  
"For crying out loud, get off me, you stupid bird before I – gaaah!"  
  
Oliver smiled to himself. Ah well, he thought. At least this should be fun. 


	3. The Sorting Ceremony

Chapter 3 – The Sorting Ceremony  
  
With a last puff of white smoke, the Hogwarts Express dragged itself into the station and gave a last shuddering start before it finally came to a halt. There was a loud hiss of air as the engines vented their remaining steam, and the wagon doors opened. Dozens of young witches and wizards jumped onto the platform excitedly and formed a large crowd of bustling activity. Amid all the nervous chatter, Harry, Ron and Hermione could barely make out the strong, deep voice that boomed over the platform. As he looked to the far end of the platform, Harry could make out the towering silhouette of their friend Hagrid.  
  
"Firs' yea's over 'ere, please. Firs' yea's! Over 'ere! Any more Firs' Yea's? Oi! That means you too, lad!" He shooed a small, blonde boy over to the large group of children he had assembled.   
  
"All right, Hagrid?" Harry said amiably, as they walked up to him.  
  
"Hello, Harry. Ron, Hermione," Hagrid said, with a friendly nod in their direction. "I will be, if I get this bunch here over the lake all right. Reckon there's a bit of a storm coming up." He shot a depreciating glance at the overcast sky. "Still, no worries, right?" He made a reassuring grunt, as he saw some First Years looking rather dejectedly at him. "I hope they can swim." Hagrid gave them a conspirative wink, and then was off, herding his crowd of very nervous young students off to the piers. First Years were traditionally taken to Hogwarts by boat. Now that Hagrid had been charged with the Care of Magical Creatures he didn't actually have to do this anymore, but he had found himself reluctant to give it up.   
  
"See you at the Feast, Hagrid," Hermione shouted after him. The three of them then made their way over to the carriages that would take them to Hogwarts Castle. Ron looked around curiously.   
  
"Where's Oliver?*   
  
They stopped. "I don't know," said Hermione. "He was right behind us when we got out of the train."  
  
"Must've gotten lost in the confusion," Ron muttered. "Well, that settles it then."  
  
"Settles what?"   
  
"His House. Only a true Hufflepuff could get lost on a platform this small." Both Harry and Hermione chuckled. "Come on, then. We better get to those carriages. I don't want to walk to Hogwarts. Fred and George had to do it once. Missed the ride cause of one of their pranks. They walked for three days," he said seriously. "Some sort of spell, I suppose..."  
  
After that, their pace quickened somewhat and they got to their carriages on time. The ride was uneventful. Harry and Ron spent their time talking about the upcoming Quidditch season. Now that Harry's lifelong ban had been revoked, he was looking forward to getting onto the pitch once more. Ron on the other hand was nervous. Harry would have thought that winning the Quidditch Cup last year would have helped Ron gain a little confidence, his doubts about his abilities as a keeper had oviously returned with a vengeance. Harry could still remember what the Slytherins had been singing the whole last season:  
  
"Weasly cannot save a thing,  
  
He cannot block a single ring,  
  
That's why Slytherins all sing:  
  
Weasly is our King."  
  
The fact was, though, that as long as nobody was paying too much attention to him (and singing that song definetely qualified as too much attention), Ron was actually a rather good keeper. Harry hoped he would get a bit of a grip on things this season. Now that they had beaten Slytherin House to the Cup two years in a row, he wasn't about to lose a game. Ever again.   
  
Ron was still going on about his new broom, Harry noticed, so he turned his attention to Hermione. She had her head resting on her hand, and was staring at the landscape rushing past, frowning. That girl thinks too much for her own good, sometimes, he mused to himself. He nudged her playfully.   
  
"What are you moping about, then?"  
  
Ron stopped in mid-sentence and looked at her. "Yeah, what's with you? I know you couldn't care less if my broom goes from nil to 70 in under 12 seconds, but usually you manage at least some polite nothings. Unless," – he grinned at Harry – "...unless you've been thinking about dear Viktor again." The boys chuckled as she went red in the face.  
  
"For your information, Ronald," – Ron raised his eyebrows. Full christian names never were a good sign – "I've been thinking about Oliver. There's something strange about him. Did you notice he has eyes like Madame Hooch? They're blue but sort of oddly shaped. Like, somehow slanted – his pupils are vertical, like a cat's."   
  
Both Harry and Ron shook their heads. They hadn't noticed this. But then again, they weren't good at noticing such details. Hermione was.   
  
"So?" Ron asked. "What of it? Some wizards have strange eyes. Snape's got a pair that looks more like a snake's than anything else. It's not that unusual, you know."   
  
Hermione snorted. "Still...there's something odd about him." Ron shot a quick glance at Harry and smirked.  
  
"Say, Hermione...you wouldn't...how to put this...you wouldn't happen to like him, would you?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" she snapped irritably.   
  
"Well, it's only that...most of the time when you're going on about someone...this odd, that odd...you end up going out with them."  
  
Harry's eyes opened in surprise.   
  
"That's not true," Hermione said indignantly.   
  
"No? Think about it...there was dear old Viktor..." He yelped as she shinned him. "...then there was that Highfield boy, that Hungarian exchange student from your Arithmancy class, old what's-his-name..."  
  
This was all news to Harry. Of course, he had spent his summer back in Privet Drive with the Dursleys, but he did get owls from both Ron and Hermione and none of them had mentioned this. Once again he wished he could spend his summers in their world. The Wizarding world. The world in which he belonged. Maybe then he wouldn't always miss stuff like this. Then again, this was rather private, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to know that much about it.  
  
"Ronald Arthur Weasly!" Hermione was white with anger, and red with acute embarassment – a frankly disturbing combination. "If you don't shut up this minute, I'll turn you into a...into a..."  
  
"Into what?"  
  
"A Hippo!" Hermione shook her head. No that wasn't it. She had said the first thing on her mind.  
  
"A what?"   
  
"Oh forget it..."  
  
Just then, Harry had spotted movement in the trees to their right. Automatically he reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, pointing it uncertainly at the landscape. Ron and Hermione's squabbling stopped. Both of them got their wands out, as well. They had learned the hard way to trust each other's instincts.   
  
"What is it, Harry?" Hermione whispered.   
  
"I don't know. There's something in the trees. I thought I saw a shadow , something moving...There!" He pointed to a vague form in the high branches of a tall oak. There was something there. Slowly the shape grew wider.   
  
"What is that?"  
  
"I don't know. I can't make it out...hang on...Lumo."  
  
A diffuse light sprang from his wand, and illuminated their surroundings. Harry had only whispered the spell, so as not to alert others to what they were doing. But the light it gave off was enough. Hermione groaned and slid her wand back into her robes.   
  
"I think we're all getting a bit paranoid here," she sighed. "It's only Corvus."  
  
And indeed, perched on a thick branch near the top of the tree sat the jet-black owl, looking quizzically at them through steely blue eyes.   
  
"It's probably just out hunting. Slytherins aren't very nutritious."   
  
They all started breathing again and Harry blew out his wand, tucking it safely inside his robes. "Can't hurt to keep your guard up," he muttered.   
  
"Too right, mate," Ron said. "Too bleeding right."   
  
They heard a swooshing noise over them and saw the shadowy figure of Corvus flying to Hogwarts Castle.   
  
"Well then," said Ron enthusiastically and rubbes his hands together. "We should figure out new Quidditch-moves for the Slytherins!" And with that he launched into a rather lengthy speech about Feints, tactics and "stout defence". Hermione gaze wandered again, and she spent the rest of the ride in silence.   
  
At long last they reached Hogwarts Castle – on time, for once. Along with the other students, they made their way through the high corridors and wide halls of Hogwarts to the Great Hall. The first thing Harry did as he entered the Hall was look up, to check the weather, hoping it wasn't raining. Much to his surprise, he got a bucketful of freezing cold water in the face. Ironically, as he stood there, dripping wet, he noticed that the enchanted ceiling showed a very pretty summer evening. The sun had barely sat. "Evening, Peeves," he said passively, when he heard an inane giggle coming from somewhere above him. "You know, one day I am going to figure out how to use electricity here. And I'm going to bring a Hoover."  
  
The silvery ghost Peeves cackled madly, and swooped down to him. Just then, Professor McGonnagall stepped up behind Harry and took in the scene.   
  
"PEEVES!" she screamed furiously. "GO AWAY!" She muttered something under her breath, as the prank-playing poltergeist glided through a wall, then looked at Harry. "Go sit down, Potter. All of you. The ceremony is about to begin. And please dry yourself off!"   
  
As McGonnagall strode off to fetch the First Years, the three Gryffindors went over to their House table and sat down. Harry cautiously looked over to the Teacher's table. Dumbledore sat there, smiling at him. The emtpy place to his left belonged to Professor McGonnagall. Their new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher should have been sitting to his right, but the seat was empty. It didn't surprise Harry much. After all those rumours about the position being jinxed (something to be expected, considering the fates of some of their former teachers) he very much doubted anyone in their right minds would accept the job. His look slid over the rest of the table: everyone was there...Madame Hooch, Professor Sprout, Professor Trelawney. At the far end of the table sat Severus Snape, Master of Potions, Harry's least favourite teacher. Fortunately he hadn't seen him. Harry didn't quite feel ready for another one of Snape's patented "Drop dead, or else"-looks so early in the new year.   
  
He turned back to Ron and Hermione and asked them if they had heard anything about their new Dark Arts teacher, but before they could answer, one of the large doors on either side of the Hall flung open, and Professor McGonnagall marched in. Much to their surprise, the first person to follow her was certainly no First Year. He was tall, lean and a bit pale. His robes and shoulder-length black hair were flowing softly behind him as he walked over to the middle of the room in a brisk pace to keep up with McGonnagall. Behind him the First Years filled in. It was Oliver.   
  
"What's he doing there?" Ron whispered. Harry shook his head. "Don't know." Hermione looked at them over her shoulder. "He said he was new here, remember? The other schools all have their own systems, I expect, but since this is his first year at Hogwarts, he has to be sorted into one of the houses."   
  
Ron made a silent "oh" as understanding dawned.   
  
McGonnagall's voive cut through the whispering and wondering that was going on at the House tables. "Settle down." The commotion stopped. She turned to the First Years. "Now, as you know, you will shortly be sorted into your houses. There are four houses at Hogwarts – Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Whichever of those you will join, your House will be your family for the duration of your stay. Your triumphs will earn you points, as surely as any rule-breaking will lose them. At the end of the year, the House with the most points will be awarded the House Cup."   
  
At this, Harry, Ron and Hermione smiled at each other. Together they must have cost Gryffindor thousands of points, and yet, for the fifth year in a row now, Gryffindor had won the House Cup.   
  
"The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily. When I call your name, you will step forward, I will put the Sorting Hat on you, and you will be sorted into your houses. First, however, there is another matter." She turned to face the House Tables. "This year, we are joined by a young man, formerly of Durmstrang – Oliver Rapace."   
  
Oliver took a small step forward and bowed slightly. As he did so, he looked at Harry and his friends, and winked. McGonnagall continued.  
  
"As some of you may know, the other Wizarding Schools do not follow the same principles at Hogwarts. There are no Houses at Durmstrang, and so Mr. Rapace will have to sorted into one, if he wishes to study here. Mr. Rapace..."   
  
She lifted a tattered and frayed old Wizard's hat from a three-legged wooden stool, and motioned Oliver to sit down on it. A large tear near the brim of the hat suddenly opened and started to sing, while McGonnagall gingerly held on to it.  
  
"Four Wizards they were, that formed this school  
  
to mold the young, and teach them, too  
  
One of them, ranked high among the best,  
  
Left the school and missed the rest.  
  
Slytherin he was, and Salazar as well,  
  
His house encompassed most that fell.  
  
Of those that stayed behind,  
  
One of them was dear and kind:  
  
Hufflepuff her House is named,  
  
Let none who bear that name be shamed.  
  
A third one there was to teach the art,  
  
Still now Gryffindors are stout at heart.  
  
The fourth one never talked proud or tall,  
  
But count Ravenclaws among the cleverest of all.  
  
Now you, who stand before me, uncertain of your ground,  
  
Put me on, then, see where you'll be found."  
  
At this, McGonnagall put walked over to Oliver. "You will now be sorted," she said and placed the hat on his head and took a step back. With a deep rumbling noise the Sorting Hat went to his task.   
  
"Ah...," it said, in a husky, drawn-out voice. "What have we here? Interesting, yes, very interesting. A Rapace again, at last. It's been long since I've seen one of you," it sneered. "Slyherins you were –" There was excitement at the Slytherin table. Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled looks. "- and Gryffindors, too. Even a Hufflepuff named Rapace." The Sorting Hat sniggered, then broke into a kind of singsong. "But that was long ago...none of them you are, and yet, sort you away, I must, sort and file, and lose, and lost...ah...so, where to put you, boy? They are getting nervous, already, do you see it? Wonder in their eyes...and awe...yes, it is pleasant...no? Not your way, you say? Well...let us see...better then be – Ravenclaw!"   
  
There was mild applause, as Oliver got up and went to join his House. Mostly, though, there was confusion. Nobody seemed to pay attention to the rest of the Sorting Ceremony, as everyone started discussing what had just happened.   
  
"What was that all about?" said Hermione. "That Hat has been getting ever more erratic. It's never done that sing-song during the sorting before."  
  
But something else had caught Harry's attention. "The Hat said it all out loud. It used to talk just to the person being sorted, if that."  
  
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. "Talk to you? It didn't talk to me."   
  
"When I got sorted, it said some weird things, too. But back then, it said them so that only I could hear them. Didn't you ever notice that with some people the Hat seems to take a little longer to decide? Sometimes it talks to them. But this time...this time it practically yelled it out for everyone to hear."  
  
"Well, maybe it's trying to tell us something?" Ron hazarded. "You know, like the songs it does each year, and the message they're supposed to have."  
  
"Yeah, maybe," Harry muttered, unconvincingly and unconvinced. He looked over at the Ravenclaw table and saw Oliver watching him. When Harry met his eyes, he smoothly turned his head, as if was merely taking in the Hall and its students. It had, however, not been smooth enough.  
  
Later, as Ron and Hermione herded off the First Years to the Gryffindor tower, instructing them on changing stairs, passwords and malevolent spectres, Harry lustlessly trotted after them, wondering what this year held in store for him. 


	4. Ravenclaw Tower

Chapter 4 – Ravenclaw Tower   
  
As soon as the feast was officially over, Oliver left the table and followed his House-mates to the Ravenclaw dormitories. He casually nodded to Harry, Ron and Hermione in the corridor, where they went in different directions. The Gryffindor dormitories where in a tall tower, in the eastern part of Hogwarts, he now knew. There seemed to be a special significance to where the House dormitories lay: Gryffindor and Ravenclaw each had towers of their own, though on different ends of the property. Slytherin inhabited one of the dungeons, and quite properly so, he thought. Hufflepuff was, as always somewhere in the middle: their common room and dormitories occupied one of the upper floors in the central building.   
  
What he had learned about Hogwarts so far had pleased him greatly. It seemed such a different place from Durmstrang. Instead of long, cold corridors filled with an almost palpable darkness, Hogwarts boasted long, cold corridors filled with torches. A marginal improvement, maybe, but an improvement nevertheless. What he had heard about the Caretaker, Mr. Filch, though, reminded him very strongly of old Mr. Morris, back at Durmstrang. Infact, the two seemed so alike, Oliver felt that Caretakers were a particular breed of humans, grown in large vats of grumpiness and discontent. As things were, though, Filch didn´t bother him too much. Whereas Morris had been a wizard, albeit a bad one, he had a strong suspicion that Filch was in fact a squib – a non-magical spawn of a Wizarding family.   
  
According to the other Ravenclaws, the only remotely magical powers he had, was an uncanning knack for being where no one had suspected him to be, for appearing suddenly behind turns and corners, always eager to catch students doing something they were not supposed to do. That, however, Oliver presumed, was part of the job description for Caretakers.   
  
He followed the long procession of Ravenclaws, only half-listening to the constant sermonizing of the prefects ("Mind the stairs, they change." "Keep up, follow me, this way." "This is the most direct route to the dormitories. Pay attention, I shan´t be saying this again"). He did however prick his ears, as the column came to a sudden halt in front of a large painting. He could see a thin, almost emanciated man, dozing inside the fitting. The House Prefect woke him up by clearing his throat loudly.  
  
Clearly, the Painting did not like this. It´s eyes jerked open and he looked at the Prefect in a very angry way.  
  
"What?" he asked grumpily. "Do you have any idea how late it is? Ungodly hour, this, you should be..."  
  
The Prefect ignored his rumbling and turned back to his First Years. "Now, listen up, this is very important. The only way to get to the dormitories is by saying the right password. Passwords are changed every week. We – the Prefects – will give them to you on every Sunday." With that, he turned to the Painting again, and, in a clear, loud voice said "Si taquisses".  
  
The painting grunted, and nodded curtly. It didn´t slide open and reveal a secret passage, though. Instead, it slowly fainted, became translucent, until it was almost impossible to see. "You may enter," it conceeded grudgingly.  
  
Without hesitation, the Prefect walked right through it, beckoning the other students to do the same. Nervously, the crowd shifted through the remains of the painting. As Oliver stepped through it, he felt a very odd sensation, as if one of the many Hogwarts ghosts had just glided through him. He felt a chill sweep over him and noticed that his hair was standing on end. When the feeling had passed, however, he heard the low crackle of a burning fire, and felt a pleasant warmth envelopping him. In the far corner of the room stood a giant fireplace, radiating heat. Over it hung a large picture of Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the four founders of Hogwarts, and originator of House Ravenclaw.  
  
There were, however, no couches or chairs in front of the fire. In fact, the whole room had been stripped bare. What remained were books – shelves and shelves of books, stretching from one wall to another, covering every last square inch of the room. There were even book-filled shelves on the ceiling, held in position by a simple spell.   
  
Oliver had seen stranger rooms. He could live with books. He liked books. As someone more wise (and more dead) than him had said once: You were never alone, surrounded by so many faithful friends, beckoning you to turn their pages. More distressing, however, was the prospect of sleeping on the bare floor. No amount of books could make up for a decent mattress.   
  
The Prefect seemed to read his thoughts – or, more likely, he had expected the obvious questions. "Allright. The dormitories for the boys are right here…" He moved to one of the shelves. "Just give old Mayers Thoughts on Wizarding Simulacrums a tug, and the shelf will swing open. Same goes for the girls, except their entrance is on the other side of the room. S.E.P.: Why it is always Somebody Else´s Problem, by Marietta Wormwood. You'll find that all your belongings have already been brought up. The Common Room is of course at your free disposal. Any questions?" A young First Year with curly hair raised his hand. "Yes?"  
  
"Uhm…there are no seats."  
  
Apparently, the Prefect had not thought of this. He looked around the room, as if noticing for the first time the obvious lack of any sitting implement whatsoever. "Oh," he said. "Forgot about that. Of course, there are chairs." He pulled out his wand and gave it a swish, muttering indistinctively under his breath. A large, black leather chair appeared in the middle of the room. The Prefect turned to the assembled students again. "If you want chairs, conjure them up. Of course, you´ll have to discover the appropriate spell for that, and learn to master it."  
  
The curly-haired boy looked shocked. "But…what if someone can´t find the spell? Or can´t do it?"  
  
The Prefect looked down at him. "In that case, someone had better redouble his efforts. There will be no exceptions to the rule. None of the older students will tell you the spell. You´ll find it of course – either in here, or in the Library. Remember what House you´re in. This is Ravenclaw, after all," he added, with a touch of pride. Apparently he took the blank looks on a majority of faces as an invitation to launch into a major speech.  
  
"You´ll soon discover that the House rivalries run much deeper than just winning the House or Quidditch Cup. Each house represents something else: Slytherin stands for ambition, ruthlessness, determination. Hufflepuff appeals to the better angels of our nature: they value trust, loyalty and above all hard work. Gryffindor spells courage and daring – and, some might say, foolhardiness. Ravenclaw represents a sharp intellect and, for some, an equally sharp tongue. It might be easier if you think of Hogwarts as a single body: Hufflepuffs are the muscle behind our efforts. Slytherins are a constant reminder of what could be. And if Gryffindor is the heart, then Ravenclaw is the mind."  
  
He let this sink in for a short while. "It´s late. All of you better be off to bed. You´ll have a day full of classes tomorrow. Good night."   
  
As the First Years slowly filed out of the room to their respective dormitories, Oliver stayed behind, ostensibly to take a look at the various bookshelves. When everyone had cleared the room however, he reached inside his robes and took out his wand. It was a sleek, 15 inch long wand made of ebony. Within it, a well-trimmed dragon's tooth lay buried. It was an expensive and powerful wand. Oliver could still remember the look on old Mr. Olivander's face when he had bought it. After the two of them had spent the best part of an entire afternoon sifting through Olivander's enormous stock, the kind old man had finally gotten out this very wand. He had given it to Oliver with a frustrated expression and seemed very surprised when the wand had agreed with him. Naturally, Olivander was very secretive about his craft and had given away almost nothing except the most necessary statistics (length, magical implement, material, origin) but there had been a very satisfied look on his face. He confidentially told Oliver that he had been trying to sell that particular wand for decades now, but had never found a suitable Witch or Wizard.   
  
Today, six years later, Oliver stood in the Ravenclaw Common Room at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twirling the wand nervously, thinking. He frowned and gave it a tentative swish. "Apparo." Something very impressively failed to happen. "No? Hm…oh, right! Appareo." With a very satisfying plop, a large dark-blue Sofa came into being in front of the fireplace. Stowing his wand back inside his robes, Oliver grabbed a book at random and settled down on the sofa. He briefly thought about Corvus, and what he had been up to ever since he left her on the Hogwarts Platform. Probably hunting, he thought, then opened the book and started reading. He had been reading for only a couple of minutes, when there came a tapping from the big, two-winged window that overlooked the Hogwarts grounds. Oliver knew without turning that Corvus would be tapping his beak against the glass pane, entreating entrance, and smiled. He had never quite understood the very peculiar bond that tied Corvus to him. Just as he was about to get up to let him in, he heard a voice coming from behind him.   
  
"Once upon a midnight dreary..."  
  
Oliver stood up and turned around. The Prefect that had led them here stood there, looking at the windowsill. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"'Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice; let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore'". The Prefect had been walking over to the window as he talked. When he reached the end of the sentence, he flung upon the shutter, and Corvus came flying in, setting down on the board above the fireplace. "It's a Muggle poem, nevermind."  
  
Oliver turned his eyes to the ceiling. "That it is, and nothing more…" he muttered.   
  
The other boy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You know it?"  
  
Oliver smiled. "Nope. Never heard of it till today." He snapped shut the book he had been reading and tossed it to the boy.   
  
"'The Raven' by Edgar Allen Poe," he read, then tossed it back to Oliver. "You're lucky. I see you've managed to conjure up something to sit on."   
  
"Well it's rather easy, isn't it?"   
  
The boy brought up his wand and produced a chair out of thin air. "You'd be surprised. I spent my first week here sitting on the floor. I'm Thomas Edwards, by the way. Or just Thom. I might as well tell you now, we're roommates."  
  
"Oliver Rapace."   
  
"Yes, I know. Probably everyone does, after the Ceremony. The Sorting Hat made quite a fuss about you."   
  
"Yes, well," Oliver said dismissively.  
  
"It made quite an impression on Professor Dumbledoor, too. He even forgot about his speech."  
  
"His what?"   
  
"Well, usually he gives some short speech at the start of each term, for the benefit of the First Years. You know, just your standard stuff: Forbidden Forest is out of bounds, no magic in the corridors. Of course, ever since the return of Voldemort, he's been giving out warnings and hints and stuff, too. Didn't, this year."  
  
Oliver was surprised, and said so. "You just said Voldemort."  
  
"Well, as old Dumbledore himself is so fond of saying: Fear of a name only increases the fear of the thing itself. There's really no point to all this You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named business, is there? Might as well just call him by his given name."   
  
Oliver found himself agreeing with the boy. He had also always thought that the Wizard aversion to Voldemort's name was rather silly. As if the name in itself could harm anyone.   
  
They carried on talking for some time, covering everything from the various teachers to Quidditch. As it turned out, Thomas was the Ravenclaw Captain and he invited Oliver to the Try-outs that would be held two weeks later. Oliver said that he would naturally come, and with that, Thomas stood up and said his goodbyes. "One last thing," he said, reaching into his robes again, and bringing up a bit of parchment. "This is your schedule for this term. Seeing as there's no news yet on who might be the next Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, all DADA sessions have been replaced with other subjects until further notice." Oliver glanced at it. Double Potions tomorrow morning. Then Double Arithmancy. Then Double Transfiguration. Great. He gave a disgusted grunt.   
  
Thomas smiled. "Life's full of Mondays, mate. I'm gonna turn in. You coming?"   
  
Oliver stood up and straightened out his robes. "No, I think I'll take a walk. You know, get to know the place a bit," he said casually.  
  
"All right then. Just remember, Sixth Years are allowed in the corridors till mignight. No longer." He gave him a stern look and Oliver nodded. "See you tomorrow, then. Good night. Oh...and welcome to Ravenclaw."  
  
"Thanks. See you." When Thomas had finally left the Common Room, Oliver held out his hand for Corvus. "Come on. I am going to have a wee look around. You just go back outside, and do whatever it is that owls actually do outside at night." The black owl looked at him reproachfully but nevertheless it came flying over and settled down on his hand. Oliver walked over to the window and opened it again. He held his hand outside, and let Corvus fly. He watched it, as it soared through the dark sky, climbing steadily and slowly disappearing into the night. He could hear a last faint shriek and then it was finally gone. He closed the window again and left the dormitory, fastening his Hogwarts cloak (now freshly embroidered with the Ravenclaw crest – a black raven with outstretched wings and talons on a dark blue background) around him as he went.   
  
Almost an hour later, Oliver was slowly walking through the gardens – they were second to last on the list of things he had wanted to see tonight. Working his way through the entire school, he had found the locations for all of his classes, had strolled through the library, seen the Quidditch pitch from afar, gotten a good glimpse at the Groundkeeper's hut and, very importantly, had memorized the way from each of these places back to his dormitory. Now, he was on his way to the owlery, to check on Corvus. After that, he would go to bed and try to get a good night's sleep. He hugged his cloak around him. It was getting cold outside. He was looking forward to the roaring fire he knew would await him in the room he shared with Thom.  
  
Quickening his pace, Oliver turned a corner, and made his way back to the interior. As he navigated through the endless passages, halls and moving staircases, he suddenly thought he heard muffled voices. He stopped abruptly and pricked his ears, but the voices – if they had ever been there – had faded. Frowning, he started to move again – though with more care than before. Trying not to make any noise, he walked the rest of the corridor and hesitated.   
  
He was very definitely looking for something, now.   
  
And he very definitely didn't know what that was.   
  
Just as he told himself that he was imagining things, he heard the voices again, somewhat louder than before. He looked around him, but everything was dark. The torches that usually lit the corridors had been extinguished, and what little moonlight pierced the clouds did not do much in the way of enlightment. There were the voices again. They were slowly coming closer. He could now make out fragments of a whispered conversation.  
  
"…must be careful…not to be trusted…don't think…wise…"  
  
Oliver realised that the voices were coming from someplace behind him and turned another corner, just in time. He pressed himself against the wall, and risked a quick glance down the corridor. At the far end of it, he could see two tall figures. It was hard to make out what or who it was, until the pair passed under a beam of diffuse light shining through one of the gothic windows. The light was not much, but it was enough. Quickly, Oliver retreated back into the shadows.  
  
He could now hear a second voice, as low as the first one.   
  
"…trust him…repeatedly told you…"  
  
The voices were steadily closing in on Oliver and stopped just a few feet short. Oliver held his breath. They were close enough now for him to hear the entire conversation.  
  
"Headmaster, I…"  
  
"I have made my decision, Severus. He will stay at Hogwarts."  
  
The other voice grew colder.  
  
"Do you really think that is wise, Headmaster?"   
  
"I do not know wether it is wise or not, Severus. But I do know that everyone…" There was a meaningful pause. "…deserves a chance. No matter what his history."   
  
Oliver could hear the hesitation in it, as the first voice spoke again.  
  
"As you will, Headmaster. But I urge you to be mindful of what happened when the Dark Lord came across his parents. Events might repeat themselves. It might not be safe."   
  
"I have considered this."  
  
"Have you considered the Prophecy, also?"  
  
There was another poignant pause. When the voice spoke again, it was very deliberate and composed.   
  
"Severus. I have thought about this matter very carefully. I have consulted the other Headmasters. The decision stands. The Board of Gouvernors might not like it. You might not like it. But he will stay at Hogwarts. He will be taught."   
  
"As you say."  
  
"The boy is our responsibility. You can question his integrity and you can question his disposition. But we must trust to his heart."  
  
"Yes, Headmaster."  
  
"And now, I think I shall nip down to the kitchen and see if there is any pie left. Goodnight, Severus."  
  
"Goodnight, Headmaster."   
  
Oliver heard the rustling of heavy robes and before he could move, Albus Dumbledore came around the corner. He did not seem to notice him, but walked straight on to the end of the floor and disappeared behind another turn. Oliver allowed himself to breathe again. Then he remembered that there was somebody else still with him.   
  
Thankfully, there came a shout from the far end of the corridor.  
  
"Professor!" he heard an unpleasant voice shout. "Professor Snape, sir!"  
  
"Yes, Filch. What is it?"   
  
"Mrs. Norris was attacked, sir. By thin air!"   
  
"What are you babbling about, man?" Snape's voice sounded tired and frustrated.  
  
Filch, on the other hand, was clearly very excited.  
  
"Well, we were doing our rounds, see, and Mrs. Norris noticed something. Hair standing on edge and all that. She hissed at nothing a couple of times, and got kicked for it. Flew five feet through the air, poor thing. Looked like it just seen a ghost, or a spectre of some sort, or-"  
  
"Potter," Snape snarled.   
  
"Sir?"   
  
"It's that blasted Potter and his damned friends again. Dumbledore should never haven given him that dratted cloak. Come on, Filch. If we catch him, you might just get a chance to get out the thumbscrews."  
  
Filch cackled gleefully, as the two men rushed down the corridor. Two solid minutes after they were gone, when he was certain that there was no one left, Oliver dared to move again.   
  
What he had overheard, disturbed him deeply. Who had they been talking about? And Potter? It didn't take much to figure out what Snape had been talking about. Mrs. Norris – whoever she was – kicked by thin air, and Snape mentioning a cloak of some description…It seemed clear to Oliver that Harry had in his possession a very rare – and costly – item: an Invisibility Cloak. Snape and Harry were obviously not on good terms – Oliver seriously doubted that could be said for any student – but he had been surprised at the venom in Snape's voice when he had – literally – spat out Harry's name.   
  
Who were they talking about? he asked himself. Of course, he knew the story about Harry's parents being murdered by Voldemort, of Voldemort almost dying when he had tried to kill young Harry too. Everyone knew it.   
  
Was that it? Were they concerned about Harry's safety? If that was what this was all about, Oliver considered it very foolish – not to mention ungrateful – of Harry to go sneaking around the school grounds at night in his Invisibility Cloak.   
  
Oliver was still thinking about what he had seen and heard that night, when he returned to his dormitory. Slowly entering his bedroom and undressing, Oliver wondered if he should tell Harry about this, but then decided against it.   
  
Best not to mention I've been creeping around, eavesdropping on people on my first night here, he thought.  
  
He climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling intently until he lost track of time. 


	5. Dumbledore's Warning

Chapter 5 – Dumbledore's Warning   
  
The next day began with someone yelling at Oliver. It didn't bode well for the rest of it.   
  
When he sleepily opened his eyes, he saw Thom standing next to his bed, a satisfied smirk on his face.  
  
"Do you have any idea how hard you are to wake up?" he asked innocently.   
  
"Yes, I do, thank you very much." Oliver rubbed his eyes and stifled a large yawn. "I was sleeping the sleep of the just." Thom eyed him sceptically. "Or the just asleep, at any rate. Didn't close an eye all night." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and whinced when they touched the cold floor.   
  
"What's the matter? Nervous?" Thom was already fully clothed and walking over to a full-size mirror to check his appearance.   
  
"Not really, no," Oliver said as he got up and started dressing. "Just been thinking."  
  
"About what?" his roommate asked absent-mindedly as he cropped his hair.   
  
"Oh, you know…stuff." Thom seemed nice enough, but Oliver was not sure he should tell anyone about what he had seen and heard last night. He had just slipped into his trousers and was stuffing his shirt into them quickly. As he set down on the bed again to put on his socks and tie his shoelaces, he noticed something odd. "Funny. I don't remember putting my clothes on the chair, last night. And neatly folded, at that."   
  
"House elves," Thom said. "They come here in the night and tidy up while everybody's sleeping. Didn't have that at Durmstrang, then?"  
  
Oliver shook his head. "Nah. Back there, they reckon you're not going to be a great wizard anyway, if you can't even keep your room clean. I prefer this, though."  
  
"Can't say I blame you."   
  
Oliver moved in front of the mirror. His fingers expertly folded his tie into a smooth knot, as Thom was watching him enviously.   
  
"How do you do that?" he asked. "I always spend hours trying to get it right. There should be a spell for it."  
  
"There is," Oliver smiled. "But don't get your hopes up. It's not a very good one. Mate of mine tried it once – ended up nearly being strangled by his tie."  
  
Thom's face fell. "Bollocks," he muttered.   
  
Oliver grabbed his jumper from a nearby chair and pulled it over his head. Then he put on his jet-black school robes, and, seeing as he constantly felt cold, his blue and silver scarf. He didn't bother with combing his hair, as Thom was already anxiously waiting for him, and it hardly ever did what he wanted, anyway. He just grabbed his books and together they left the dormitory, crossed the empty Common Room with a few long strides and went to join their House in the Great Hall.   
  
They caught up with a few fellow Ravenclaws on their way, and Oliver was introduced to Colin and Ed, two Seventh Years that, as Oliver was told, were inseperably, and to the second Ravenclaw Prefect, a girl named Cho Chang. Together they entered the giant, Cathedral-like room. Oliver was surprised to hear the idle chatter of hundreds of students and even more so to see them strolling around the room, running to classes – or, in one case, to the bathroom. At his old school, breakfast had always been a sombre affair, partly because the atmosphere at Durmstrang had always been somewhat subdued, and partly because, at seven in the morning, everyone was still too tired to make a fuss. Compared to that, this was a hive of activity.   
  
He looked ahead at the teacher's table and saw Dumdledore listening intently to something Madame Hooch said. Suddenly, Dumbledore stopped and looked straight at Oliver. Madame Hooch broke off in mid-sentence and followed his gaze. Oliver suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Madame Hooch was head of House Ravenclaw. Had they been discussing him?   
  
He pretended not to have noticed it, and joined Thom and the others, who had already gone ahead and helped themselves to scrambled eggs and bacon. He sat down with his back to the wall, so that he had a free view of the room. Thom offered him a bowl of porridge, but he shook his head. "No thanks," he said. "I don't do breakfast. I'll just have a cup of tea."   
  
Thom shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said and tucked in.   
  
Olivers eyes searched the Gryffindor table, and came to rest on Hermione Granger. Harry and Ron were sitting with their backs turned to him, and they were apparently arguing with Hermione. Amid many nervous looks right and left, as if to ensure that no one was listening to closely to what they were talking about, Oliver saw her shake her head angrily. She started talking again, gesticulating wildly and he could tell from her expression that she was getting more and more frustrated. At one point, they locked eyes when her gaze darted over to where he was sitting, but the moment was gone as soon as it had come. When Harry and Ron turned to see what her friend was looking at, Oliver quickly turned his head to Thom.  
  
"Can I ask you something?"  
  
"Mmhmhmhm?" Thom replied indistinctively through a mouthful of porridge.  
  
"What's your take on Harry Potter?"  
  
Thom swallowed his porridge down and looked first at Oliver, then over to the trio at the Gryffindor table.   
  
"Dunno. Never had any dealings with him," he said, then paused to wipe his mouth with his napkin. "Couldn't really say. I hear he's nice. Of course, there's the small problem of Voldemort trying to kill him." Thom had merely whispered the name, out of respect for the other students. He didn't want to spoil their breakfast. "Heard about the Triwizard Tournament, I suppose? And that business at the Ministry last year?"  
  
Oliver nodded. He had overheard a conversation of his parents about the events of last spring.   
  
"Well, there's that, but otherwise he never struck me as very different from other people. Very brave, of course. Typical Gryffindor, as they go. Cho knows him better, but I wouldn't ask her about him. They had a row a couple of months back, about something or other. Don't know what. Hasn't spoken to him since. His friend on the other hand…" He nodded in Hermione's direction. "She's clever. Should be in Ravenclaw, if you ask me. Don't know what happened there, but then again, I suppose that tatty old hat has its reasons for everything it does. Plus, she's obviously gotten very pretty over the summer," he added matter-of-factly.   
  
"Really?" Oliver arched an eyebrow as he looked at Thom and smirked. "Why do I get the feeling you've rather taken to her?"  
  
The other boy seemed not to have heard him. He kept staring at Hermione. "Slightly bushy hair," he mused. "But very pretty eyes…bronw…full lips…long neck – and legs, mind you. And filled out rather well, I'd say." He craned his neck to get a better look at her.   
  
"Mind out of the gutter please, Edwards." Oliver nudged an elbow into his ribcage.   
  
"Ouch! What?" Thom looked at him questioningly.  
  
"Get a girlfriend."  
  
"I'm trying to…"  
  
Oliver shook his head, but grinned. On the face of it, Wizards and teenagers were poles apart. Certainly a group of people who often dressed strangely, lived in a world of their own, spoke a specialized language and frequently made statements that appeared to be in flagrant breach of common sense had nothing in common with a group of people who often dressed strangely, spoke a specialized language, lived in...er...  
  
Oliver turned to look at Hermione again, still smiling, but only got another frown in return.   
  
Half an hour later, Thom and he got up to go to their first class, five minutes late, but moving fast.  
  
They passed some other students on the stairs as they hurried to the Dungeon reserved for Potions class. When they reached the dark corridor that led to it, they saw that other students were already waiting in front of the door, forming a large queue that almost reached around the corner. There were flashes of all four House colours. Further along, Oliver could see Harry and Ron, having a very heated talk with Draco Malfoy. Thom beckoned to Cho who had just been talking to Hermione. She hurried over to Thom and reprovingly told them they were late.   
  
"We had noticed. What's going on?" Thom asked her, looking at the assembled students. "Why is everyone here? It's just us and the Hufflepuffs, isn't it?"  
  
"Apparently not. I don't know what's going on. I was just talking to the Gryffindor Prefect and she showed me their timetable. Looks like we'll be doing all of courses with the Gryffindors as well. And the Slytherins," she added darkly.  
  
"What?" Thom obviously had difficulties believing that. Ahead of him, the Gryffindor-Slytherin discussion had turned into a fight. Ron and Draco were rolling around on the floor amining punches at each other, with Harry and other students trying to pry them apart. "This is ridiculous."  
  
When the two fighters had at last been separated and restrained by their fellow students, Thom shouted at them over the crowd of people. "Ten points from each of your houses. No fighting," he said sternly.  
  
Ron looked abashed and started to explain that Draco had started it, but Malfoy cut him off and snarled at Thom. "You can't do that, Edwards."  
  
Before Thom could answer to this, Hermione had turned to Draco and said "I think you'll find that, according to the Hogwarts Statutes..."  
  
"No one asked for your opinion, you filthy little mudblood."  
  
There were shocked gasps from the crowd and a silence fell over the corridor. 'Mudblood', let alone a filthy little one, was an incredibly insulting term to describe someone who was Muggle-born.  
  
Thom was bridling with anger. "That's it, Malfoy," he spat. "You just bought yourself three days of detention and another 10 points from your house."   
  
Malfoy drew himself up to his full height, which, for his age, was considerable, and looked at Thom with cold fury in his eyes.   
  
"You…"  
  
"That will do, Mr. Malfoy," a new voice said behind them.   
  
Oliver turned to see Professor Snape standing immediately behind him, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking sternly at the scene before him. He wore his usual expression of repressed disgust and anger. His eyebrows rose lazily as Ron stepped on Draco's foot.  
  
"That will be another five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasly," he said impassively.  
  
Ron stared at him with open loathing, but seemed to think that it had been worth it. Some of the usual arrogance returned to Draco's face as he sneered at the red-haired Weasly.   
  
Oliver looked at Snape curiously, but was smart enough not to say anything. Suddenly the older man's gaze landed squarely on him, and he felt Snape's eyes bore into his head. He saw Snape's lips curl as he spoke.  
  
"Mr. Rapace," he said in a dangerous whisper. "The prodigial son returns, now, does he not?"  
  
Oliver was surprised at the open hostility in Snape's voice. They had never spoken much, of course, but at least he had never been sneered at before.   
  
"Sir?" he said uncertainly, but Snape had already looked away.  
  
"If you are not as completely useless in other fields as most of you are in Potions, you will have discovered by now that there has been a slight change. Classes will forthwith be held together. Of course, the usual dungeon will not hold all of you, so Potions class will be moved to a bigger one. It even has some of its…original furniture left," he said with a meaningful look at Harry. "In working order, I am told." The young boy stared back at him defiantly, until Snape turned about abruptly and bellowed that they should follow him.   
  
As the students hurried after Snape, Oliver let himself fall behind. As Harry, Ron and Hermione drew level with him, he got another one of the suspicious glances they seemed to reserve for exclusive use on him. Harry and Ron quickened their pace somewhat, but Hermione matched her stride to Oliver's. Her two friends didn't notice. Ron was still furious with Snape, and they were speculating loudly about finding something interesting in the new dungeon to use on their Potions Master.  
  
They walked in silence, until Hermione was reasonably sure that they were out of earshot, then she looked sideways to Oliver.   
  
"Listen," she said, hesitating. "I'm sorry if I was a bit…short with you on the train."  
  
"That's quite all right," Oliver said lightly. "I do realize I was a bit out of line.   
  
"Good." Hermione nodded, apparently satisfied with the way this was going. They silently started walking faster to keep track of the rest of their class.  
  
"So," Oliver said after a while. "What's with you three and Malfoy?"  
  
Hermione tensed at the mention of the name. "He's an arrogant, evil little git. And he's got a mouth that will one day get him into serious trouble. I promise."   
  
"Ah. Well, I suppose as Prefect," He emphasized the word more than strictly necessary. "It would be your duty to report it, if, say, Corvus dropped a couple of dead rats on Malfoy's head?"  
  
There was a small smile tugging at Hermione's mouth, but she did her best not to let it show. "Well, I think as a Prefect it's not really my job to watch over other people's owls. Accidents will happen, my mother always says."  
  
Oliver kept a straight face. He was very good at it.  
  
"We are, of course, speaking strictly hypothetically," he said with a serious air.  
  
"Oviously."  
  
"Of course." Oliver decided to change the subject then, careful to keep an impassive face. "If I asked you, would you tell me what you and your friends were doing last night?"   
  
She managed to conceal her surprise very well, but Oliver could feel her give a sudden start, and saw her eyes narrowing slightly when she looked at him.   
  
"That would be your business, then?" she said innocently.   
  
"Not even remotely. But as I was wandering the grounds last night I just happen to be interested in seeing who else did. And why."  
  
"Well, what were you doing outside?"  
  
Oliver waved a hand vaguely. "Oh, just run-of-the-mill stuff. Getting to know my way around the place. Wouldn't look to good if I got lost during my first days, would it? I hear there were some occasions where people got lost for days and had to eat their own shoes."  
  
Hermione had almost slowed down to a halt. The rest of their class had turned a corner and disappeared. They were alone. Hermione's face was concerned and her voice turned into an angry whisper. "I don't know what you think you might know, but Harry, Ron and I spent last night in our common room and in our beds. Unless you actually saw us wandering the corridors, you'll just have to take my word for it."   
  
"Oh, don't worry." Oliver was whispering now, too. "I very clearly did not see you wandering the corridors."  
  
Hermione stopped in her tracks. Something in the way he had said that made her stomach turn. "You're always right, aren't you?" She glared at him.   
  
"Often. You would understand, of course." Oliver could see that she was having trouble keeping her composure. "You don't trust me, do you?"   
  
She gave him a patronizing look. "I just met you, yesterday. You can hardly expect that. All you might expect at the moment is that I might get to like you. And you're walking a very fine line at that." She turned on her heels and walked away quickly, struggling to catch up with the rest of the class. Oliver could tell she was furious by the way she stomped through the corridor.   
  
A voice called after her: "You're right. I'm not to be trusted!" It took a heartbeat for Oliver to realize it had been his own. He felt a wave of anger welling up inside his chest. "Great…" he muttered disgustedly, and slammed his fist against the wall, then started running.   
  
It took a while for him to catch up to the rest of his class. He saw Hermione in front of him, joining her two friends, and walked on the very end of the column. He was angry, though he wasn't absolutely sure if he was angry at her or at himself. This may not have been the best way to do that, he thought to himself.   
  
He spent the remaining time of the Potions class sitting in his bench in silence, staring at the blackboard in front of him, thinking. His mind was still wondering, and he scarcely paid attention when Snape paired him up with a large Hufflepuff boy to brew an experimental potion. He watched impassively as the boy picked the wrong ingredients, mixed them in the wrong order and heated them at the wrong temperature. Only when he had gotten to the very last ingredient, did Oliver realize what had happened. It was however much too late, and all he could do was watch dejectedly as the faulty potion melted his cauldron and slowly evaporated in thick, greenish smoke. Professor Snape came walking over and eyed the pair, irritated by this pathetic display.   
  
"Zero grades, Rapace and Hunter. Congratulations," he said coldly. "This was the worst Brewster's Brew I have seen. Yet." He glanced at Harry. Oliver slumped in his chair dejectedly, and threw his quill on the desk.   
  
The rest of the day pretty much followed the same pattern. Arithmancy, already one of Oliver's least favourite subjects, was only mildly disastrous, but Transfiguration was a downright catastrophe. Finding himself unable to concentrate, he had rather pompously failed to turn his quill into an eagle. Instead, what had crashed into existence in the classroom, looked like a very unpleasant mix between a gargoyle and the contents of your average sewer. It had smelled accordingly. The class was filled with roaring laughter, and Oliver had tried to disappear inside his robes after Professor McGonnagall had gotten rid of the thing ("Evanesco!" she had said loudly, and the disturbing creature had gone up in smoke) and looked at him sternly.   
  
"Five points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Rapace. Pay attention next time."   
  
Later that night, he wished he had skipped supper and gone straight to bed, as soon as he entered the Great Hall. Some Ravenclaws grinned at him and had trouble to keep themselves from bursting with laughter, but other looked at him in a very disheartening way. He took his now usual seat next to Thom and mumbled a greeting. The other boy was grinning widely. "Nice one, mate," he said, patting his back. Oliver just let his head fall on the table, and only looked up when there was a small tinkle of glass, and the talk around him stopped.   
  
He looked up to the teacher's table, where Dumbledore was standing up now, in his dark purple robes, with his arms spread to get everyone's attention.   
  
"I have only a few things to say, before I will let you gorge yourself on the food, which I trust will be as succulent and delicious as ever," he said in one breath. With his soft, rasping voice, he sounded like everybody's favourite grandfather. "Please, bear with me. First of all, I would like to welcome our new First Years to Hogwarts. The best of luck to you, for your first stay at your new school."  
  
There was some mild cheering and clapping.  
  
"Second, there are the usual start of term announcments. The Forbidden Forest is still, obviously, forbidden, as is any use of magic in the corridors between classes. Also, our Caretaker Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you all that two new items have been added to the Forbidden List, which can still be consulted in his office, if anyone cares to."   
  
He paused and looked around the hall, his eyes coming to rest on each House table in turn.  
  
  
  
"Now, then. No doubt you will be relieved to hear that despite the obvious dangers, the Hogsmeade trips have not been cancelled."  
  
Loud cheers erupted across the room. Dumbledore waited for the commotion to calm down.  
  
"The first one will take place in four weeks. Put your name down with your House Head, if you want to participate. Now, due to circumstances, there has been a slight change in proceedings. In Hogsmeade, students are required to be accompanied by at least one teacher at all times."  
  
Thom leaned over to Oliver and told him: "I don't really care if a teacher'll be trailing me. As long as it's not Snape, obivously. Ever been to Hogsmeade? It's the only all-magical community left in England."  
  
Oliver shook his head. He had learned about Hogsmeade yesterday evening, before the feast. He had listened in on a conversation between two First Years. It had seemed to be the only thing they could talk about. Oliver was surprised though, that Dumbledore permitted these trips, so shortly after Voldemort had last attacked Hogwarts students.   
  
"The same rules will apply here at Hogwarts. Starting tonight, any student found in the corridors unaccompanied by a teacher or member of the staff after nightfall will receive detention and suffer the loss of 15 House points. I hardly need to tell you all, how important it is that you follow these rules. As I have said before, and as I'm sure you will have read in the Daily Prophet by now, Lord Voldemort" - There was a loud hiss, as the entire room sucked their breath in – "has indeed returned. There have been reports of attacks, both against Muggles and Wizarding Institutions, all over Europe. It may only be a matter of time, before Hogwarts itself will become a target. The protective charms around the school have been strengthened, but that in itself is no guarantee of safety.   
  
I do not wish to disturb you unnecessarily, but it is of the utmost importance that you – all of you – realize what I am saying. It is my belief that we are returning to the Dark Days. There is a war brewing, a War of Mages, and I must impress on you the need for discipline. Some of you have already been directly affected by Lord Voldemort. Ohers may have lost relatives when during His first reign of terror. I will not lie to you: Many more will suffer this time."  
  
The usual twinkle was gone from Dumbledore's eyes. A strange, almost frightening, determination had replaced it, as he gazed purposefully at the Hall. His voice had lost its familiar melody, and the sentences seemed to come in short, pressed bursts.   
  
"The attacks on innocent people are muliplying. Some months ago, his Death Eaters dared attack the Ministry of Magic. Voldemort himself was involved personally. And it would seem that even Hogwarts is no longer the safe haven it used to be. I would ask all of you to remember what happened to Cedric Diggory. You must remain vigilant. And you must address yourselves to me, or to your House Heads, or to any member of the staff, if anything strikes you as unusual."  
  
Dumbledore looked across the room, and let his eyes settle on Harry and then on Oliver, much to his surprise. He could feel the rest of the table turn and stare at him. Oliver looked around uncertainly. When he saw Thom's face, he shrugged and shook his head. I don't know.   
  
"That would be all," Dumbledore continued. "Please, tuck in."  
  
There was a second or two of absolute, stunned silence, after he had sat down again. The food appeared magically on the tables, but hardly any one seemed to notice. Even the House Ghosts looked stricken. The Grey Lady, the Ravenclaw Ghost, hovered above her Ravenclaws and could not speak.  
  
Then, all at once, the young Wizards and Witches started talking. 


	6. Paradise Lost

Chapter 6 – Paradise Lost   
  
Two weeks had passed since Dumbeldore's speech and things were as normal as they could be under the circumstances. Oliver found himself adjusting to life at Hogwarts – he had made a couple of friends in Ravenclaw, notably the two House Prefects, Thom and Cho. He was mildly popular with the crowd that usually occupied the Ravenclaw Common Room in the evenings, largely, he felt, because of the support Colin and Ed lent him. The two boys were commonly acknowledged to be both the wittiest and – as far as this was an accurate desciption for magical folk – coolest young Wizards in Ravenclaw. Unfortunately, they were also among the worst.  
  
Oliver had gotten to the Common Room one night, and they had given him the "New Guy" Routine, that seemed to be universal in schools all over the world. They had pulled out their wands and threatened to petrify him. Oliver had had to do some quick thinking, and after a second he had told them that, according to what he had heard, the only curses they could do that stood a chance of actually working were curses like "May it rain on you, at some point in the future" and "May you lose a precious object, even though you could swear you had just seen it two minutes ago."  
  
Cleverness of mind and tongue were valued highly in Ravenclaw House – after all, they did have a reputation to defend – and after that little episode, Colin, Ed and Thom had sort of adopted Oliver. They had introduced him to the details of living at Hogwarts – details like Moaning Myrtle, the sequences of the changing stairs and why going into the Forbidden Forest was not generally considered a good idea.   
  
They had told him everything the school gossip had turned out over time: about Voldemort's first appearance there, after all these years he had been thought dead, of his slaughtering the unicorn, of the giant spiders, of the troubles with the centaurs. There even was a rumour about a rogue giant living there. Not to mention the score of not necessarily evil, but nonetheless very dangerous creatures that inhabited it.   
  
Oliver rolled this over in his mind, as he walked over the Hogwarts grounds at a quick pace. He did not know where he was going, exactly, and it would not have made a difference, anyway. He just felt that he needed to get out of the school. Ever since Dumbledore's cryptic warnings two weeks ago, he had noticed the students from other Houses avoiding him, skirting around him in the corridors. His own House formed a very closely knitted entity, which had, to a certain extent, accepted him. Even so, some of the Ravenclaws had shied away from him,  
  
He knew their reasons, of course. After Dumbledore's speech, the cleverer students would have looked up his family history in Rincewinds Bigge Wizzardes Almanache. They would have learned about his family's dealings in the Dark Days, of his parents' crimes, of their self-imposed exile from England. They would know, and they would then tell the other students about it. After two weeks, Oliver guessed that anyone with ears was well aware of exactly who and what he was. The scion of a family of Dark Wizards.   
  
Oh, of course, his parents were quite innocent. They had claimed to have been under the influence of the Imperius-Curse and the judges had cleared them of all charges. But no one had believed it then, and Oliver could see no reason why anyone should believe it now. Particularly not since, unlike the Malfoys, who had found themselves in the same situation, his parents had chosen exile abroad, rather than trying to save face with generous donation to various Wizard organisations.   
  
It figured that Dumbledore had it in for him – after all, the Headmaster had been the one to press charges against his parents, and had had to witness them being let off the hook. Oliver supposed that long, lingering look he had given him in front of the whole school two weeks ago had just been a jab at his parents. Nevertheless, he would have to stick it out.   
  
He could feel a familiar anger rise in the pit of his stomach. He had long since tired of this game. His parents had moved him around all across Europe, put him into various schools, and it had always been the same. His first couple of weeks were quite enjoyable, until, inevitably, someone stumbled over his ancestry. He would be avoided, shunned away, bullied and eventually his parents would move again, and he would leave. Even at Durmstrang, whose Headmaster, Karkaroff, was suspected of involvment with Voldemort himself, this was true.   
  
Then, Oliver had heard of Hogwarts. During his fourth year at school, Oliver had been an avid reader of the Daily Prophet, as well as other, even more gossipy papers, and had devoured every article remotely connected with either Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry or Harry Potter. It was then that he resolved to leave Durmstrang and attend Hogwarts. Of course, his parents had been fiercely opposed. In the end though, they had relented, though he still couldn't say why. It seemed strange and inexplicable to him, that they had actually allowed it. Hogwarts stood for everything they did not. A liberal mix of purebloods and Muggle-borns, a lenient Headmaster that employed failed Wizards, even werewolves…and of course that Headmaster was Dumbledore.   
  
Nevertheless his parents had dropped him off at King's Cross, and sent him off to Hogwarts. And now, here he was. And he had an ugly feeling that it would all happen again, just as it had happened before. He played his own part in that, he knew. Years of wary looks and hushed whispers had made him resentful. He resented being feared because of things his parents had said and done. He resented people not giving him a chance to prove that he was Oliver Rapace.   
  
Not Claudius.   
  
The anger that he felt grow each day had no real outlet, nothing except barking at people occasionally, and being short with them. He had become arrogant and haughty, proud of his own cleverness. And he had already been caught several times making a mistake he had sworn not to make, a mistake many, otherwise highly intelligent, people committed: to think that everyone else was stupid.   
  
He had learned this the hard way, at Durmstrang, when, despite a host of clues and even a few warnings, he had found himself victim of a curse he simply had not thought the people concerned capable of. He would always keep the memory of that. And the scars.   
  
And now…now it was starting all over again. His behaviour was pushing people to conlusions they would otherwise not necessarily come to. Like with Granger. On the two occasions where they had talked so far, Oliver had both been haughty and aloof, cultivating a superiority that he knew to be fake. On some subconscious level, he knew that he was doing things wrong, but found that he was unable to behave in any other way. He was already dreading the remainder of the year.  
  
Ironically, his cousin, Malfoy had made several attempts to befriend him. He was not at all sure he cared for the implications of that.   
  
Suddenly, a shriek filled the air. Not bothering to look up, Oliver continued walking, and hardly flinched when Corvus came to him, landing smoothly on his shoulder. Ah, yes. Corvus. Sometimes he felt as if the large owl was the only thing that kept him sane. He had never been able to understand why the faithful animal had been attracted to him, and he did not expect to. But the fact was, that, ever since Corvus had found him, it had been loyal to him. A friend. And Oliver was grateful for it. He had the vague notion that somehow this particular, feathered friend always brought out the best in him. Or what remained of it, in any case.   
  
His mind filled with gloomy thoughts, Oliver suddenly noticed he had skirted the edges of the Forbidden Forest on his walk. A small distance away to his right, lay the rustical hut of Rubeus Hagrid, the groundkeeper. The Forest spread out in front of him. It had a foreboding air about it.   
  
  
  
He realised he probably should not even be here. Though, technically, the Hogwarts grounds encompassed all of the Forbidden Forest, the Forest itself was, obviously, forbidden ground, and, quite apart from that, Oliver was positive that no student should be wandering around outside, all by himself. Besides, it was cold. He made his mind up to cocoon himself inside the Ravenclaw Common Room for the rest of the day.   
  
When he turned back to Hogwarts and started walking again, Corvus suddenly became very agitated. The owl flexed his wings uncertainly and its talons burrowed into Oliver's shoulders. It gave a frightening shriek, and shot up into the air in a blindingly fast movement. It had soared up and flewn into the Forbidden Forest in a heartbeat.   
  
Oliver called after it, but it was no use. The owl was gone, and he knew very well that he had no real control over it. Then suddenly there was a rustling from the bushes on the outskirts of the forest. Oliver froze. It could not be Corvus, he knew. Who was it, then?   
  
He scanned the treeline for movement, out of the corner of his eye. It was an old trick he had learned from a Muggle-born kid at his first school: the corners of the human eye could detect motions easier than the centre, because of the lesser concentration of light receptors at the edges.   
  
He was just about ready to dismiss his suspicions as pure paranoia, when he saw a shadow moving through the trees. A second one followed it closely. These were no animals, though they moved like cats among the leaves and grasses. These things moved on two legs. He could not make out any details, just silhouettes, a shade of black against a shade of black. If he could just move in a little closer, he might be able to…  
  
"Oy!"   
  
Oliver gave a surprised start. He looked back to the treeline quickly, but the shadows had gone. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary in these woods. There was even a squirrel, that came hoping into view. It looked at Oliver curiously.   
  
"Wha' 're ye doin' he'e?"   
  
Oliver turned around to face a giant of a man. He had to crane his neck to look at the man's face. There was no doubt of it: this had to be Rubeus Hagrid. No other man was able to tower over any given object quite like him. At the moment, he was towering over Oliver.   
  
"I was out for a walk," he said quickly. "I was just about to go back, when…"  
  
"Aye, ye shoul' be goin' back, lad. No sens' in runnin' a'ound he'e all by yerself. Dumbledore 'd go spa'e. G'eat man, Dumbledore. "  
  
Oliver swallowed. "Yes, sir. It's just that I thought I…"   
  
"Thought wha'?"  
  
Oliver shot another look at the Forest. Had he been imagining things? He shook his head slightly. "Nothing," he said in a quiet voice. Hagrid eyed him suspiciously.   
  
"Awrigh' then, off yer go. An' be quick abou' it!" he shouted, watching Oliver's retreating back. When the young Wizard had turned a corner, Hagrid turned around and walked to his hut.   
  
Seconds later, a large, black owl, came sailing overhead, and flew straight into the Forbidden Forest. "Stupid bi'ds," Hagrid muttered. "I woudn't go in the' fo' all the galleons in the wo'ld, now. Of all times. Pro'lly won't be seein' that on' again."   
  
As Hagrid fumbled with his keys, and the owl navigated the trees carefully, something moved in the Forbidden Forest. Blades of grass were bent by an invisible force, and branches were pulled back, seemingly by thin air. Two very small voices were barely audible, even had there been anyone to listen in on them.   
  
"Do you think he saw us?" the first one asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"Good. Very interesting, that spell of yours."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"The squirrel was a bit much, though."   
  
Then the voices stopped, and it was quiet again.   
  
A little while later, Oliver stood in the bedroom he shared with Thom and was busy dusting himself off. He had returned to the Forbidden Forest, after Hagrid had left, to make sure, but had found nothing. He must have been seeing things. After a few fruitless attempts to get the grime and dirt out of his robes, he finally gave up and reached for his wand. He pointed it at himself candidly and said: "Scourgify". The grey and brown spots on his robes vanished and he stowed the wand away. He glanced at the large grandfather clock that stood in the corner. The usual dials showed that it was just past eight o'clock in the evening. There were however two other dials: they had a picture of Thom and himself on it. The dial with Thom on it was pointing at "Common Room", and Oliver decided to join him there.  
  
As the door swung open in front of him, a wave of noise hit Oliver. The Common Room was packed. Apart from the usual crowd – Thom, Cho, Colin and Ed – it seemed that most of the rest of the House was there, too. Colin saw him and beckoned him to join them. There were no free seats and hardly any space to conjure up a fresh one left, so Oliver stood with his back to the wall and leaned against the fireplace, careful not to get to close to the burning fire. In a world that mostly relied on open flames for lighting and heating, a Wizard's robes were a constant fire danger and an occasional embarassment.   
  
He smiled his greetings to the group and tried hard to ignore the anxious looks a couple of lower grades exchanged. Thom looked up at him expectantly.  
  
"Have you head?" he asked.  
  
"Heard what?"  
  
"Dumbledore's given up on the Dark Arts. Says he couldn't find a decent teacher all summer. So guess who's taken over the department?"  
  
Oliver shrugged.  
  
"Snape."  
  
He groaned. "Fantastic."  
  
"Tell me about it."  
  
Cho frowned at both of them, as other people around them echoed their groan. "I still don't see what the big deal is," she said. "Okay, so he's never gonna win Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award, but he's qualified."  
  
"Right," Colin grunted. "He would be. Rumour has it he was a Death Eater last time around. I suppose he'd know a thing or two about the Dark Arts."   
  
"Snape a Death Eater?" Cho snorted loudly. "Come off it, Colin. All right, so he's an uptight old git with greasy hair, but a Death Eater? That's a bit harsh."   
  
She recoiled quickly when three other people shouted their own take on this at her. After athe commotion had died somewhat, Cho looked up at Oliver, who had so far not said anything about this.  
  
"Well, what do you reckon, Ol? Death Eater or not?"  
  
Oliver knew for a fact that no one in the Common Room knew as much about Snape as he did, but he kept his expression unreadable and his voice even.   
  
"Dunno. Could be, I guess. Certainly looks the part. And he seems to be more than averagely acquainted with the Dark Arts. On the other hand, he's been Potions Master here for years now. Why would Dumbledore trust a Death Eater?"  
  
Good question, actually, he said to himself.   
  
"Thank you, Ol! Exactly my point," Cho said loudly. "If he were a Death Eater, Dumbledore wouldn't let him near Hogwarts!"  
  
There still were a few unconvinced grunts, but for the greatest part, it was hard to argue against this. Thom, on the other hand was not about to be proven wrong so easily.   
  
"I don't know, Cho," he said, resting his head on his hand.  
  
"Oh, come on, Thom, we've had this discussion hundreds of times. Remember our first year? The incident with Ha…Potter's broom? You got all worked up about Snape trying to kill him, and then it turned out that he had actually saved him."  
  
Oliver raised an eyebrow. After two weeks at his new school, he knew most of what had happened here in the last few years. There were, however, still a few details he had not heard of yet.   
  
"Snape saved Potter's life?" he asked.   
  
Cho looked up at him again. "Yeah. That Quirell-Voldemort-chimera was jinxing his broom, and if it hadn't been for Snape muttering a counter-curse he'd probably've died."   
  
Oliver thought about this. He would never had believed that possible, considering the way the pair looked at each other. Clearly, this place still held a few surprises for him.   
  
Gradually, people lost interest in the conversation and started to leave. The Common room got emptier by the minute, and before long it was only Thom and Oliver left. Cho had excused herself half an hour before and gone up to the girl's dormitory. Colin and Ed had decided that they were hungry, and had nipped down to the kitchen to grab a bite.   
  
When they were alone, Oliver had collapsed in a spacious, dark blue lounge-chair one of the other Ravenclaws had kindly left there. He stretched his legs luxuriously, let his arms fall over the sides, looked up at the ceiling – or, rather, the books hanging down from it, and yawned loudly. "I'll be buggered if I can get up tomorrow morning. You'll have something of a challenge. Reckon you're ready for it, Prefect Edwards?"   
  
When the other boy failed to answer, Oliver slumped into a normal sitting position and looked at his friend. Thom was watching him intently.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're holding back something."   
  
Oliver sat a bit more upright and tried not to let his voice give away his emotions.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You know something about Snape. Don't deny it. You didn't give Cho much of an answer, and no one looks that composed when he talks about Death Eaters."   
  
"You're imagining things," Oliver said nervously.   
  
"No, I'm not. Listen, mate, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I suppose you've got your…reasons. But I know I'm right. There's something about Snape that stinks. And I'm not talking about Malfoy."  
  
Oliver chuckled weakly, but his eyes remained serious. He was slowly, very slowly reaching a decision and gave his reeling mind a final push. He sat up and leaned forward suddenly, looking Thom directly in the eyes. After a while he spoke at last.  
  
"All right. If what I'm about to tell you leaves this room, I'll put a Hex on that'll make certain rather important body parts of yours shrink to the size of raisins. Clear?"  
  
"Crystal." Thom leaned forward eagerly.  
  
"Right. Snape was a Death Eater."  
  
Thom yelled "I knew it! The bloody ba…" but controlled himself quickly and motioned for Oliver to go on.  
  
"But, some time before Voldemort's fall, something happened to Snape. He seemed to be having a crisis of consciousness. Didn't last long though. After a couple of weeks he was back with the lot, wrecking mayhem with the best of them. After Voldemort's disappearence, he got off using the Imperius-Curse as excuse. Dumbledore then took him in on his staff."  
  
Thom snorted. "Too many of the bastards walked, because of that bloody curse. Look at Malfoy. Everyone with a brain should know he wasn't controlled by Voldemort. But he's gotten off as well. They should be tossed into Azkaban, the whole bleeding lot of them!"  
  
Oliver looked at him. "You don't want to know how I know this?"  
  
Thom blushed. "Well, I assume…I mean, I guess…you…your…" he stuttered, looking away.  
  
"Oh, say it already, man!" Oliver said crossly. "You're clever enough to have looked it up." Thom avoided his eyes and muttered an apology, but Oliver found he couldn't stop. He was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice. "Stop being daft. Don't apologise to me! It was only a matter of time, anyway. People always dig up the skeletons in your closet. Particularly if they're real ones."  
  
"Look, I'm sure…"  
  
"You're sure of what? Don't you think I've noticed the way people look at me? Yesterday some young git almost had a heart attack when I bumped into him. And to top it all off, I have that creep Malfoy tailing me, trying to hook up with me, because, ha ha, of course, he figures since our parents were in the same line of business, why shouldn't we?"   
  
"What? Malfoy? He's not…I mean, you're not…?"  
  
"No, he's not, I'm not, we're not!" Oliver spat mockingly. "Not yet. Probably'll be the only one to talk to me before the end of the month."  
  
"Look, Ol, you're right. I looked your family up. I know about your parents. But I didn't tell anyone."  
  
"It doesn't matter if you told anyone or not. People around here may not be too bright, most of the time, but they're not thick, either. Others have found out. And others have told. It doesn't take Prefect Thom to tell them!"   
  
Thom looked at him furiously. "You know, that temper of yours isn't helping things. If you knew this was coming, then get a bloody grip on yourself!" Oliver said nothing. He was staring into the fire angrily. "You don't seem to realize," Thom continued, "how many people around here have lost people in the last war. Or just now, recently. What do they know who killed their parents or aunts and uncles? All they know is that is was Voldemort and his Death Eaters. And it could very well have been your parents. There. I've said it."   
  
Oliver didn't look up. He didn't want to talk. He couldn't believe his explosion just now. Of course, Thom was right. His parents probably were responsible for more deaths than he cared to know about. He glanced at Thom morosely. The other boy took this as an invitation to continue.   
  
"You know, I don't blame you for…whatever it was they did, if that's what you're afraid of."   
  
Apparently, this was enough to trigger another outburst.  
  
"I'm not afraid of anything in this world!" Oliver hissed. "There's nothing – nothing - you or anyone else can throw at me that I haven't already heard."  
  
Before Thom could answer this, there was a sudden tap at the window. Both boys turned their heads to see Corvus there, staring at them impatiently. Oliver got up and walked over to the window briskly. When he had opened it, Corvus didn't fly up to him, or nibble him, like she usually did. He just held up her leg, urging Oliver to rid her of the message that he carried. Oliver fowned. He rarely got mail at school. When he held the letter in his hands, he tried to pat Corvus on the head, but the owl shied away from him and flew off quickly. Oliver's mood darkened even further.   
  
"What's with your bird?" he heard Thom ask. He didn't answer straight away. He knew Corvus would not let himself be touched by him, when he was in a foul mood. But he had never yet left so abruptly. He knew the reason for Corvus' odd behaviour, however, as soon as he looked at the letter.  
  
As Thom watched his friend reading the letter, he could tell that it was not good news. He could not see Oliver's face, but his whole body language told him that something was wrong. Oliver had gone rigid while reading. Then he turned around abruptly and dropped the letter into Thom's lap. Without another word, he tugged at Thoughts on Wizarding Simulacrums and left the Common Room before the hidden door had even swung completely open.   
  
Thom looked after him, puzzled. Then he straightened out the letter which Oliver had crumpled into a tight ball, and held it up to the light. His face went pale as he read:   
  
Oliver,  
  
Your mother and I will be visiting your new school on next Monday. We expect to see you are doing well in your surroundings.   
  
Arrange a meeting with the Rgt. Hon. Professor Severus Snape. We have things to discuss.  
  
Do convey my regards to young Malfoy, whom I hear is also in your year. I trust you get along well.  
  
Your father.  
  
Claudius Rapace. 


	7. A Shadow Of Doubt

Chapter 7 – A Shadow of Doubt   
  
The curtains around his four-poster bed were already drawn shut, when Oliver heard Thom finally come up to the dormitory. He heard him rummaging around in the dark, obviously having difficulties undressing and finding his bed. After a couple of thuds and a particularly pained groan, it was quiet again, except for Thom restlessly tossing around in sleep.  
  
Oliver was lying on his bed, still fully dressed, his arms crossed under his head. He was not really thinking – he was worrying what business his parents had at Hogwarts. They were not the sort to make friendly visits. And what about their meeting with Snape? Undoubtedly they had business with his Potions Master. Oliver's mind reeled in a number of unpleasant directions as he stared at the ceiling and thought about this.  
  
The next morning – it was a Sunday - he left the room as soon as the sun came up. Thom was still dozing loudly as he crossed their bedroom and closed the door behind him. He hurried out of the Common Room, walked straight through the grumpy painting that guarded the Ravenclaw rooms, swooshed down the stairs of their tower and into the seemingly endless corridors of Hogwarts. After a while, his energy wore off. He did not know where he was going, anyway, so he decided just to sit down on the stairs that led to the enormous courtyard.   
  
Two gravelled pathways divided it into four squares of equal length. In the middle, where the paths intersected, there stood a large fountain. It looked like it had been carved from a single, gigantic stone. Sculptures of the four Founders were placed around it, and in their middle the Hogwarts coat-of-arms hovered over a large bassin.   
  
In the summer, the statues would have had a steady flow stream of water flowing from the tips of their wands into the central reservoir, but now, in mid-autumn, they just stood there, looking slightly decrepit. The courtyard was lined by open corridors. Gothic arches was all that separated the inside from the outside. Behind Oliver, the walls were dotted with various doors leading to various classrooms.   
  
Oliver said down on the stairs, and fumbled for his cigarettes. He knew that, strictly speaking, he wasn't allowed to smoke anywhere on Hogwarts grounds until he was of age, but today he did not really care. He slipped one of them between his lips, lighted it with the tip of his wand and gazed miserably at the fountain. After a while, he had to conjure up an ashtray to put his stubs into.   
  
Gradually, as the morning wore on, the courtyard started to fill with people. A couple of Hufflepuff First Years had come to sit on one of the benches and were talking very excitedly – and loudly – about the first Quidditch game of the season. Ravenclaw would be playing Gryffindor in a week, opening the season. Oliver remembered vaguely that he had intended to try out for the Ravenclaw House team. He was not about to, now, of course. There was simply no way, he felt, he would be allowed in it, no matter how well he played. Besides, he told himself, his friend Cho was the Ravenclaw Seeker, and he felt no real inclination to try out for any other position. He would only be watching Quidditch, this year, then.  
  
A bit off to his right, sitting with their backs turned to him, another group was practising spells and hexes out of a textbook. They would be Ravenclaws, Oliver suspected. Only members of his own House would spend their Sunday mornings studying.   
  
Oliver took a last drag on his cigarette, put it out in the ashtray between his feet and cradled his head in his hands. He exhaled the smokey blue vapour through his nose and ran a hand through his hair, scratching himself desperately.   
  
Something was very, very wrong, and the more he thought about it, the more confused he got as to what it was. It just made no sense. Why were they coming here? For seventeen years they had taken no more than a fleeting interest in his life, except of course, when it came to matters that affected themselves. What did they want with him? He picked up his cigarette pack, closed his fist around it and threw it away disgustedly. He was looking at the ground, furious with himself and the world in general, when he had footstep behind him and turned his head, to see Draco Malfoy slump down on the staris beside him.   
  
"Looking good, Rapace," Draco said depreciatively.  
  
Oliver looked down his front. He was still wearing the clothes from the day before, his shirt hanging losely from his trousers, his tie undone and his collar dishevelled. His hair was pointing in a number of unusual directions. He grunted sharply, and looked at Malfoy. The Slytherin's robes were in pristine condition, as ever, his long, blonde hair carefully combed back across his head. His lips were curling as he gave Oliver's appearance a cursory glance.   
  
"Thanks."  
  
Oliver did not turn around to look, but he suspeced that Crabbe and Goyle, Malfoys faithful cronies, were somewhere behind him, lurking in the shadows.   
  
"What do you want, Malfoy?" he said, a little more harshly than he intended to. He had not run into any trouble with the Slytherins, so far, and he very much wanted to keep it that way.   
  
"Bee in your bonnet, Rapace?" Malfoy sneered. "It's Hogsmeade weekend, today."   
  
Oliver sighed. Not another attempt at friendship. He had to give it to Malfoy, he was stubborn. He had been following him dggedly, ever since Dumbledore's speech. Of course, he would have been familiar with the name Rapace before. Oliver had never met young Draco, but he did remember his father, Lucius, as a regular guest to his parents' home.   
  
"What of it?"  
  
Draco irritatedly tapped his fangers on his leg and Oliver had to surpress a smile. He could not even imagine how unused Malfoy was to trying to be friendly.   
  
"I'm just saying," the Slytherin spat, "me, Crabbe, Goyle and some others will be going to the Hog's Head this afternoon. If you care to join us, you'd be…welcome."   
  
Malfoy looked as if he had just uttered the most profane obscenity imaginable. Or, rather, he looked as if he dearly wished he had just uttered the most profane obscenity imaginable. Making a disgusted noise, he sprang up and strode off across the courtyard, trailed by his two burly friends.   
  
Later that same day, a large part of the Hogwarts student body could be found in the magical village of Hogsmeade. They had been brought there by carriage, and were now roaming the narrow streets and various shops. As always, there was a huge crowd of people, both inside and outside Zonko's Joke Shop, stocking up on Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets and Frog Spawn Soap. Honeydukes Sweetshop was equally crowded, due to the dozens of young Witches and Wizards perusing the enormous variety of sweets on sale. Usually, they disappeared within the shop for a quarter of an hour, then came back out, pockets brimming over with Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Chocolate Frogs and of course Sugar Quills, which, when you put them in your mouth, made you look like you where thinking intently.   
  
Unsurprisingly, Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop had to deal with a far smaller number of students, and Olvier found the store almost empty when he entered it. He very urgently needed a new quill – a rather talented Ravenclaw First Year had accidentally transfigurated his old one into a parrot, and then run off, terrified that Oliver would curse him, or tear him apart, limb by limb.   
  
After a while, he decided on a simple, blindingly white swan-feather quill. On an afterthought, he also bought a new ink-well and threw in two more quills, of the same kind as the first one. You never knew what spell those First Years might want to try out next. When he had paid the friendly, elder man behind the counter, Oliver pocketed the quills and well, and stepped back out in the street.   
  
He looked around him uncertainly, trying to figure out what to do next. He did not even know exactly why he had come to Hogsmeade. It was not as if he was hoping to run into anyone here. In fact, it was the exact opposite he hoped for. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him and trotted off aimlessly. The crowd instinctively opened up before him, as people were trying to get as far out of his way as possible, but he did not mind particularly. At least, it gave him a bit of room.   
  
He passed Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, glancing briefly at the disgustingly cheerful decoration of the room. Inside, a crowd of mostly younger grades were sitting around the tables, drinking large mugs of tea and cacao, chatting away loudly.   
  
On the other side of the road, he saw Cho stepping out of Gladrags Wizardwear, two rather large parcels under her arms, and ducked away into a side-street quickly, before she could see him. When she had left in the opposite direction, he carried on in the direction he had been walking in before. As he drew level with The Three Broomsticks, he suddenly remembered Malfoy's invitation, if that was the adequate term.   
  
Oh, what the hell, he thought darkly. At least he still talks to me.   
  
Making up his mind, Oliver set off to the Hog's Head. It was not very far away. From a distance, Oliver could already see the sign hanging over the crowd of Hogwarts students: a large boar's severed head, leaking blood onto the white cloth around it. The Hog's Head was a rather peculiar pub. It was much dirtier than The Three Broomsticks and attracted a much more interesting clientele. From the outside, it had an unwholesome look about it, and as Oliver stepped into the smoke-filled room, he noticed that the inside was not that much better. The pub consisted of a single, small room, that smelled of something that might be goats, but might just as well be dragon's droppings. It was hard to tell, with all the extra texture added to it by the various guests. Most of them were either sitting around at old and decrepit tables, or standing at the counter. Almost everyone had a ragged look about them, and quite a few of them wore their hoods over their faces.   
  
The room itself seemed to absorb and swallow every ray of light that was foolish enough to venture in. What little light remained had a diffuse quality, and on the whole, the Hog's Head had more shadowy corners than any room Oliver had ever seen.   
  
Behind the counter stood a grumpy-looking, bearded old man, long, thin strands of silvery hair hanging down the sides of his mangled face. A large scar ran all the way from his throat to his right ear, crudely cutting his lips in half. When he saw Oliver, he tried a crooked smile that seemed as if his mouth was not accustomed to such a thing. It was not a pleasant sight.   
  
Oliver swallowed as he walked over to the counter.  
  
"Beer, please."  
  
The old man eyed him angrily, but reached down under the counter anyway, and placed a very dusty old bottle of Butterbeer in front of Oliver.   
  
"No. Beer. Ale," Oliver explained. "And a coaster, if you have them."   
  
The old man grumbled deeply and removed the offending butterbeer. He limped over to a large tap, and started pouring Oliver's ale. It very definitely did not look like beer. It was a very dark, sticky fluid that could only slowly be poured, simply because it did not seem to flow like an ordinary liquid. When the man had finished, he placed the mug in front of Oliver and looked at him fiercely.   
  
"Five knuts," he hissed.   
  
Oliver rummaged through his pockets quickly, and found the appropriate coins. He considered enquiring after a coaster briefly, but quickly thought better of it. Instead, he just lifted the heavy mug and, holding it at arm's lenghts, walked over to a dark corner, where Malfoy and his friends sat.   
  
They looked up at him curiously, when he approached the table. Malfoy motioned him to sit down imperiously and started introducing him to his friends.  
  
"This is Bletchley – Bole – Bulstrode and Flint. You know Crabbe and Goyle." The two large boys looked at Oliver theateningly as he gave them a nod.   
  
"I'm Oliver Rapace."  
  
Millicent Bulstrode cackled. "Yes, we know that. Malfoy told us everything about you."   
  
Oliver looked at Malfoy, but before he could say anything, Miles Bletchley cut in eagerly.   
  
"You were at Durmstrang, then?"  
  
Oliver nodded and found himself confronted with suddenly very attentive Slytherins.  
  
"Is it true they're studying the Dark Arts over there?"  
  
Oliver nodded again. It was true. While Hogwarts and Beauxbatons, the two other major Wizarding Schools in Europe, restricted themselves to teaching their students how to defend themselves against Dark Wizards, Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute had introduced the study of the Dark Arts proper to Durmstrang's curriculum.   
  
"Of course it's true," Malfoy sneered. "Karkaroff isn't such a gullible old fool like Dumbledore. And he doesn't admit filthy mudbloods, of course."  
  
Again, this was true. Karkaroff hated Muggles with a racist passion and did not allow them into Durmstrang. Oliver frowned slightly as he thought about his old Headmaster. He had never had any problems with him – on the face of it, Karkaroff had always treated him friendly, most likely because of his parents. It was widely rumoured among the Durmstrang students, that Karkaroff himself had been one of Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters before, but had turned into a snitch after his Lord's downfall, betraying his former associates to the Ministry of Magic. As Headmaster, he had tried hard to cultivate a cheery manner, to deflect attention from his dubious past, but it had never quite worked. Oliver had always found the emanciated old man's smiles very unsettling – they didn't extend to his eyes.   
  
Of course, after the spectacular return to power of Lord Voldemort, almost two years ago, Karkaroff had gone missing. He feared his Lord's revenge, and knew that he was not really trusted by anyone else. Therefore, Igor Karkaroff had gone into hiding.  
  
As he thought about this, Oliver remembered the two years he spent under Karkaroff. He did not look back fondly at his time at Durmstrang. His principal memory was the blistering cold. The Institute lay hidden in the snowy mountains of northeastern Europe, so far up north, that most of the days were very short. Because of the near-arctic temperatures, the school uniforms had comprised quite a lot of furs, worn over the blood-red school robes.   
  
He abruptly snapped out of his reverie, when Malfoy elbowed him in the ribs.   
  
"I said, how was Durmstrang?" Malfoy repeated impatiently.  
  
"Cold. The uniforms were sort of stylish though."   
  
Malfoy screwed up his eyes in annoyance. Oliver supposed it took him a lot of discipline to beat him into a pulp. Or to get his cronies to do it, at any rate.   
  
"I meant-"  
  
"Hey look!" Millicent Bulstrode hissed. "Speaking of mudbloods…"  
  
Oliver turned his head, to see what everyone was looking at. He did not like it.   
  
Closing the door behind them, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had entered the Hog's Head and gone to sit with a small group of other students in front of one of the few windows. Oliver reckognized none of them, but it was not an exclusively Gryffindor group. There were people from all School Houses, including Slytherin. The group sat close together and talked in hushed whispers. Next to Oliver, Malfoy's lips curled.   
  
"Saint Potter and his flock! What do they think they're doing here?"  
  
Just then, at the other end of the room, Hermione Granger looked up and took in the room. Her eyes rested briefly on Malfoy, who started shaking with anger.  
  
"And that stupid little mudblood, Granger. She makes me sick!"   
  
Oliver heard a number of approving grunts from the table. The Slytherins were all staring at the other group with intense loathing in their eyes.   
  
Fletchley was to first to speak again.  
  
"Someone should teach them a lesson. Show them they're not welcome here. This is our pub."  
  
There were a couple of muttered "Yeah"s and a "Too right" from the table. Malfoy was smouldering with rage. Oliver had a sneaking suspicion that this could turn very ugly, very soon. He had been in enough wizarding bar-brawls at Durmstrang to know that, in Situations like these, it was best if someone gave in. And judging from the way Crabbe and Goyle were already massaging their fists and flexing their muscles, he knew that it would probably have to be the other table.   
  
"You're right," he said, then said it again louder. "You're right. I can't stand those arrogant Gryffindor berks. Particularly Granger. She makes me want to forget myself." His voice had sunk into a low growl.   
  
Malfoy was looking at him through narrowed eyes. "All right, Rapace. Show us what you got, then. Go over there and tell them to sod off."   
  
Oliver nodded curtly, then rose from his seat and walked over to the far end of the room. Behind him, he could hear the Slytherins standing up. As he approached the other table, Oliver saw Hermione glance up at him, then whisper urgently in Harry's ear. Potter, who had been sitting with his back to the Slytherins, stood up and turned around. Hermione and Ron stepped in front of him protectively, their hands reachings inside for their wands.   
  
Oliver fished out his own wand, and raised it dramatically in the accepted dueling position, taking great care to let the Slytherins behind him see it. He stopped a couple of inches from Hermione's and Ron's faces and said in a very loud voice "What do you think you're doing here?"   
  
"We're having a drink," Ron said angrily. "What does it look like we're doing?"  
  
Oliver was screaming inwardly. He could feel the Slytherins inching closer and frowned.   
  
Meanwhile, Harry had moved to his friends' side and taken out his own wand. "Don't try anything, Rapace," he said in a low voice. Behind him, a couple of older students from their table had also taken out their wands and stepped up to the trio.  
  
Oliver's eyes darted sideways and tried to look at what was going on behind him. He could feel a small pearl of sweat forming on his forehead.   
  
Hermione was looking at up him, her head held at an angle. Her eyes darted from him to the group of Slytherins and back. Malfoy and his gang were creeping ever closer, their own wands at the ready. Harry and Ron were staring at Oliver defiantly. Suddenly Ron gave a yelp of pain.   
  
Oliver had shinned him, hard. That seemed to have been the last straw. Ron started going red in the face, looking furious. He made a sudden jump at Oliver and had to be held back by Harry. The Slytherins rushed forward and stood immediately behing Oliver. Ron was struggling with all his might, itching to get back at the Ravenclaw in front of him, but Harry held him tight in his grip.  
  
When Oliver noticed Hermione staring at him, he turned his attention to her and smirked haughtily.   
  
"What are you looking at, mudblood?"   
  
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other group.   
  
Ron renewed his struggle to break free of Harry's grip and almost suceeded a number of times. He was yelling furiously.   
  
"You shut your face! Don't talk to her like that, you slimy little bastard!"   
  
Oliver tried to look at Ron, but his eyes were held back. Hermione had not said anything, had not even blushed or shown any sign that she had heard the profanity just thrown at her. Instead, where usually her eyes would be filling up with tears, there was a determined look. She nodded her head slowly a couple of times, then with more vigour, as if she was coming to a decision.   
  
She turned to Ron, and laid a hand on his shoulder.   
  
"It's all right, Ron. It's not worth it,"   
  
"What? Are you mad? He can't just call you that! Let me go, Harry, I'm gonna batter him to…"  
  
Hermione saw that Harry had difficulties keeping his grip on their friends, so she said "It's all right" again, and walked out the door.   
  
Harry and Ron stared at the closing door for a few seconds, then Harry let Ron go and they ran after her, not without sending a last venomous look in Oliver's direction. The rest of their group slowly followed them out, casting angry glances at the Slytherins, who were smirking nastily and shouting obscenities at their retreating backs.   
  
When they were gone, Oliver turned around to face the Slytherins. They looked disappointed.  
  
"I thought you were going to teach them a lesson," Malfoy said in a cold and bitter voice.  
  
Oliver stepped up to the blonde boy.  
  
"I will. Later. Too many people around here." Malfoy gave him a cruel smile, and he felt slightly sick as he returned it.   
  
He turned about on his heels and left the pub.  
  
Standing in the doorway, he saw Harry and Ron walking away quickly. Their group had dispersed. Hermione was trailing behind them, walking at a measured pace. They all had their backs turned to him.  
  
Looking around to make sure no one would follow him, Oliver pulled his hood up over his head and set out after her. 


	8. Knives in the dark

**Chapter 8 – Knives in the dark**

Harry and Ron were already a short distance ahead, when Hermione stopped to look at the window display of Bolo's Bookstore for Wizards. Apparently, a large, leatherbound copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ had attracted her attention.

Oliver readjusted his cloak, and quickly walked up to her as soon as he saw Harry, Ron and what remained of their group, disappear safely behind a turn. He positioned himself behind her and saw their reflection in the window, a tall, dark boy looming over a slightly smaller girl with bushy hair. When he reached inside his robes, Hermione raised her head and looked briefly into his reflected eyes.

Feeling uncertain about what to do next, Oliver rushed past her and into the store. Minutes later, he emerged again, fumbling with his moneybag, muttering to himself. An enormous book was tucked in underneath his arm. He turned to Hermione, took a deep breath and failed spectacularly to say anything. He did not know where to start.

"Well?" Hermione enquired casually, still looking at the books on display.

Oliver looked at her, flummoxed.

"Are you going to give me that?" She pointed vaguely at the book he had just bought.

Oliver managed an unconvincing "Erm...", then cleared his throat loudly and handed her the parcel.

"Thank you," Hermione said. "And...?"

"And what?"

Hermione sighed loudly and looked at his face for the first time. "And you're going to apologise for being unforgivably rude, just now."

Oliver's eyebrows rose in surprise, but Hermione just went on.

"I am going to accept, but will suggest that you go and apologise to Harry and Ron too, particularly Ron because I gather you kicked him rather hard. So."

"So what?" Oliver said automatically, but nodded when Hermione tapped her foot impatiently. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"Apology accepted. Now come on, it's freezing out here."

She grabbed his arm and dragged him away, heading for The Three Broomsticks at a fast pace. When they had reached the pub's large swinging doors, Oliver held open the door for her out of habit, and she swept past him and into the pub without so much as a "Thank you". They sat down in a quiet corner of the pub and ordered butterbeers (or at least Hermione ordered butterbeers, and Oliver acquiesced silently).

After a moment of silence, Oliver felt acutely uncomfortable. Silences were something you did when you were alone. He cleared his throat and leant forward slightly.

"I do mean it, you know," he said slowly. "I'm sorry I called you a – that. It's just..."

She looked at him seriously. "I know what you were doing. Otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here. You looked so nervous about the whole thing, it was perfectly obvious."

"I looked nervous?"

"Written all over your face."

"I thought I was doing rather well, actually."

"Well, I suppose your back's a better actor than your face." She gave a slight smile. "Don't worry, you won't have to tell Harry and Ron. I'll explain it to them later."

Oliver nodded glumly. He had been a bit apprehensive of that. "I still don't think they'll like me much, after this."

"Well, they don't, anyway."

Oliver grunted loudly. "Thanks."

"You can't blame them. Everyone knows You-Know-Who is after Harry and Ron is very protective about his friends."

"Yes, I noticed that. He's not very bright, though, is he?"

Deep lines appeared on Hermione's forehead as she narrowed her eyes.

"Why do you do that?" she asked him.

"Do what?"

"Insult people. Make them mad at you."

"I don't..."

"Yes, you do. You do it all the time. You make people mad at you." She held out her hand and started counting off on her fingers. "On the Hogwarts Express, you had no business with my private life. Same goes for Potions, the day after. There are a few Gryffindors who swear you were inches away from Cursing them for looking at you. And from what I've heard you jumped down Thom's throat last night as well."

Oliver had been slumped in his chair until now, but sat up in surprise at this. "How do you know that?" he asked. "How do you even know Thom?"

Hermione waved her hand vaguely. "He's been asking me out for months. He told Cho, Cho told me. You know how it is. There's a lot of talking at Hogwarts."

Oliver's face darkened and he nodded slowly. "Really," he said coarsely.

"So why do you do it? Why drive people away?"

"I don't...drive people away," he said reluctantly. "I don't need to."

"If you're referring to your family..." A sharp intake of breath and a dark look told Hermione that he was. "Of course I looked it up as soon as I got here," she explained.

"Do you want me to congratulate you? Everyone did."

"Before Dumbledore's speech. I looked it up on my first night here. The next day, I tried to apologise to you."

There was a meaningful pause. Oliver felt the heat rising in his face. "You don't have to sound so smug about it," he mumbled.

Hermione frowned at him. "See? You're at it, again. I'm not trying to impress you here, you know. I'm just trying to say that people do have a point. Your family history is definitely against you."

Oliver gave her another dark look. He could feel the anger rising up in him again, the anger that always seemed to be boiling so closely beneath the surface, these days.

"So what are you doing here?" he spat.

Hermione tried to ignore the venom and frustration in his voice. "I'm here because I want to give you a chance."

"Really?" Oliver had a hard time keeping his anger in check. He rose out of his chair stiffly. "Well, thank you _so_ very much. I think I'll pass."

Before he could leave, however, Hermione looked up at him and asked: "What were you doing with Malfoy?"

Oliver stopped and hesitated. "I was having a drink," he said, not turning around to face her.

"Why Malfoy?"

He exhaled slowly. "Because," he said quietly, "there's no catch in his voice when he talks to me." _Even if he doesn't like it_, he added mentally, and turned around slowly to look Hermione in the eyes. When she neither blinked nor averted her eyes, it made him only angrier. "And no fear in his eyes."

"I'm not scared of you," she said, and Oliver thought there was a new quality in her voice. Warmth? Compassion?

_Pity. _

He stared at the table for a while, trying to decide what to do and say, unsure if he could trust her to trust him.

Finally he reached a decision. He slid a hand inside his moneybag and tossed a few coins on the table to pay for the Butterbeer, then looked straight at Hermione. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper, the emotion behind it clearly audible.

"Then," he said, "I suggest you take a closer look at my family tree. You will be."

With that he turned around and half ran out of the pub.

He flung the doors open, heard them slam against the wall with a satisfying thud and crossed the street hurriedly. On the other side of the wide promenade, directly opposite the Three Broomsticks, a narrow, gloomy alley led off to other parts of the settlement and Oliver quickly ducked into it. When he had put a sufficient distance between himself and the busy street, sheltered from the looks of other people, he stopped and lighted a cigarette. Leaning against a dirty wall, he smacked the back of his head against it repeatedly, his wand enclosed in his clenched fist.

_That arrogant little..._He shook his head violently. _I don´t bloody need her. I don´t bloody need anyone! _He sighed deeply._ And what if I do? _

Oliver wondered if he had become so accustomed to people distrusting him, that he himself had forgotten how to trust. Had he become so engrossed in his past experiences that he simply could not grasp the possibility of different ones, anymore? Better ones?

He took a deep drag of cigarette smoke and slowly exhaled through his nose. A gust of cold wind tugged at his robes. Cold. It was always getting colder. He glanced down the glum alley, stared in the direction he had just come from. Through the large window of the Three Broomsticks he could see Hermione, still sitting at the same table, supporting her head on her hands. She had opened his present and started reading.

Thom was right. She should have been in Ravenclaw.

He started walking again, putting more distance between himself and her. What was he doing? She was right, he knew that. Maybe, if she could look past his family and his past, others could. Maybe even himself. If she really was not scared of him, then maybe he, Oliver, need not be, either.

He slowed down, then stopped completely.

Perhaps she could trust him. And perhaps he could too.

"No," he said loudly. "Sod it."

He turned his back to the busy street and started walking again. Before long, the narrow passage opened up to a small square. There was nothing much in it, a patch of green in the middle, a signpost indicating directions, and a few benches arranged along the house walls. At each corner of the square, a passage similar to the one Oliver had just walked through connected it to the rest of the village.

He walked over to one of the benches sat down on it, pulling his cloak closer around him as his cheeks burned in the cold wind.

_So cold. _

He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm and felt the anger ebbing off gradually, frustration taking its place. He'd gone and done it again. One of these days, he knew he had to get a grip on his temper. And on his pride.

_It's all their fault,_ he thought darkly. His parents' impending visit had thrown him off balance completely, and it was worse, because he did not know why it upset him so much. Granted, his relationship to his father and mother had never been a very cordial one. Most of the time, both parties were quite contend with ignoring each other as far as possible. On some subconscious level Claudius and Messalina Rapace probably felt, rather than knew, that Olvier was their son, just as Oliver – somehow – felt vague affection for them. But on the whole, their relationship had so far been one of blissful isolation, largely, Oliver supposed, because their living space permitted it. Their estate in Prague was vast enough to hold half a dozen dysfunctional families. Oliver had had almost the whole west-wing to himself, and only ever had to face his parents on bank holidays, when they would give splendid parties he had to attend. But at least, for the greatest part of the time he spent there, Oliver had had his privacy. And one thing his parents had never done before, was visit him at his school. They hardly ever called on him, except maybe to pass along instructions or announce their moving to yet another different country.

And so, Oliver sat on a bench in a cold, derelict courtyard, leaning against back, eyes closed and wondered what his parents wanted with him, just as he had done the whole night. It was not good news, that much he could guess.

A gush of cold wind blew his hair into his face, and for the nth time today, he wished he had brought his scarf and fished for another cigarette. Smoking, at least, gave him the impression of being warm. As he exhaled heavily, the blue cigarette smoke mingled with the vapour his breath formed as it hit the cold air, and he sighed.

Leaning back against the bench, Oliver could see a large flock of birds circling overhead. Squinting his eyes, he could make out a pitchblack speck among them and knew it was Corvus. Some of the owls were fluttering about nervously, swooshing to and fro in an excited manner. Others were content with soaring through the air quietly, occasionally flapping their wings to gain momentum, eyes darting right and left, as if they were hunting.

Oliver watched them silently. After a while, Corvus seemed to grow tired of the game and came sailing down. With a quick flap of his wings, he perched on the signpost in the middle of the square and looked at Oliver quizzically. He gave a greeting hoot.

"You don't look like you're having fun, either, my dear lad."

Corvus hooted again and started cleaning his feathers with his beak.

"That's right. Personal hygiene. Very important."

A flicked of movement caught his eye and Oliver looked sideways. A squirrel was going through a collection of rubbish bins, its head completely disappearing under the lid.

Not moving his eyes from the squirrel, Oliver gave a low whistle to get Corvus' attention. "You hungry, mate?"

A second later, the lean body of his owl came swooping into view, going after the squirrel. As he came closer to the rubbish bin, Corvus stretched his talons out under him and tried to grab his lunch. The squirrel did not move, obviously ignorant of the very real, feathered danger.

But Corvus failed to catch his prey. His talons did not rip into the soft flesh of the small rodent. Instead they went right through it, as if it was not even there, and got tangled up under the lid. Corvus smashed face-first into the wall.

Still the squirrel didn't move.

Oliver rose, alarmed. Instinctively, his hand went inside of his cloak and reached for his wand, bringing it up to his face as he got to his feet. He pointed it at the squirrel.

"What the...?"

Before a coherent thought formed in his mind, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and turned on his heels.

"Stupefy!" he cried.

In front of him, a middle-aged man seemed frozen solid, a terrified expression on his face. Oliver looked at him quizzically.

Very slowly, the man fell over backwards.


End file.
